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THE 


STRATFORD  GALLERY; 


OR  THE 


SHAKSPEARE  SISTERHOOD 


COMPRISING  FORTY-FIVE  IDEAL  PORTRAITS. 


DESCRIBED  BY 

HENRIETTA  LEE  PALMER. 

Illustrated 

WITH   FINE  ENGRAVINGS   ON   STEEL,  FROM  DESIGNS   BY  EMINENT  UAND3. 


"Here  conies  the  Lady!" 

Romeo  and  Juliet. 

"  I  have  no  other  reason  but  a  woman's  reason : 
I  think  her  so  because  I  think  her  so." 

Two  Gentlemen  of  Yerona. 


NEW  YORK: 
D.  APPLETON   AND    COMPANY. 

1867. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1858,  by 

D.  APPLETON  AND  COMPANY, 

In  the  Clerk's  office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  United  States,  for  the  Southern 
District  of  New  York. 


.*•.''•■"' 


DEDICATION. 


TO 


j.   w.    :p. 


T1IE   MOST   EXACTING   AND   THE   MOST   ENCOURAGING:— 


SOMETHING  BETWEEN   A   UlNDEKANCE    AND   A   HELP. 


PREFACE. 


In  offering  the  first  fruits  of  her  labor  of  love  to  the 
generous  world  of  Shakspeare-lovers,  the  writer  distinctly 
disclaims  the  intention  of  presumptuously  identifying  her- 
self, in  her  unpretending  task,  with  those  whose  names 
are  honorably  associated  with  the  Master-Poet's,  and 
who  are  known  by  their  works,  as  his  wise  and  faithful 
scholars  and  expounders.  Yet  does  she  confidently  claim 
the  right  to  speak  of  these,  his  Sisterhood,  as  one  woman 
may  justly  speak  of  another — judging  them,  not  with 
sophisticated  research  nor  oracular  criticism,  but  simply, 
naturally,  sympathetically,  as  she  may  regard  her  fellow- 
women  whom  she  meets  from  day  to  day. 

New  York,  November  1,  1858. 


THE    PORTRAITS. 

■»  *  » 

DESIGNED  BT  ENGRAVED   BY  PAGB 

LADY  MACBETH,    .        .    a.  e.  chalon,  b.  a.  .    c.  cook,       .  .        11 

JULIET,              .           .           .           E.  T.  PAKEIS,     .  .           W.  J.  EDWARDS,  .      17 

OPHELIA,  .          .                     .J.  BOSTOCK,            .  .      W.  J.  EDWABDS,  .           29 

IMOGEN",           .          .          .          E.  T.  PABBIS,     .  .          C.  COOK,              .  .37 

MIRANDA,            .            .            .      K.  MEADOWS,         .  .      W.  H.  MOTE,  .            47 

DESDEMONA,        .        .        j.  hayteb,      .  .        u.  bobinson,  .  .53 

ROSALIND,           .           .            .J.  HAYTEB,              .  H.  BOBINSON,  .            61 

PHEBE,                                                     W.  DEUMMOND,  .            W.  EDWABDS,  .      65 

CELIA,    ....        j.  bostock,     .  .        w.  n.  mote,    .  .69 

BEATRICE,           .           .           .J.  IIAYTEB,     .       .  .      G.  STODABT,  .           73 

HERO,       .           .           .           .           J.  J.  JENKINS,  .  .           W.  J.  EDWABDS,  .      81 

JULIA,           .           .           .           .      J.  J.  JENKINS,        .  .      B.  ETLES,      .  .           87 

SYLVIA,                                  k.  meadows,  .  .        w.  n.  mote,    .  .97 

VIOLA,          .           .           .           .      K.  MEADOWS,         .  .      B.  EYLES,       .  .         103 

OLIVIA,                                                     K.  MEADOWS,    .  .            B.  ETLES,             .  .109 

MARIA,         ....      K.  MEADOWS,         .  .      W.J.  EDWABDS,  .         113 

PORTIA,             .          .          .          J.  J.  JENKINS,  .  .          C.  COOK.  .          .  .117 

NERISSA,                               w.  fisher,      .  .        n.  bobinson,  .119 

JESSICA,    .        ,        .        .    k.  meadows,      .  .     w.  n.  mote,  .      125 

PERDITA,          .            .            .            C.  B.  LESLIE,  B.  A.  .            W.  II.  MOTE,       .  .129 


THE    PORTRAITS. 


DESIGNED  BY 

ENGRAVED  BY 

PACK 

MISTRESS  FORD,     . 

K.  MEADOWS, 

.      W.  J.  EDWARDS,     . 

142_ 

MISTRESS  PAGE, 

K.  MEADOWS,    . 

W.  J.  EDWARDS, 

.  147 

ANNE  PAGE,     . 

K.  MEADOWS,    . 

E.  EADCLTFFE, 

.  151 

ISABELLA,      . 

K.  MEADOWS, 

.      B.  ETLES,      . 

155 

CLEOPATRA,     . 

K.  MEADOWS,    . 

W.  J.  EDWARDS, 

.  163 

CRESSIDA,      . 

K.  MEADOWS, 

.      W.  H.  MOTE, 

177 

HELEN,       .        . 

G.  INGLIS, 

.  183 

CASSANDRA, 

K.  MEADOWS, 

.      W.  H.  MOTE, 

187 

THE  SHREW,     . 

F.  P.  STEPHANOFF,    . 

C.  COOK, 

.  191 

HELENA,  .... 

J.  HAYTER, 

.      B.  EYLES, 

197 

TITANIA, 

J.  J.  JENKINS,    . 

C.  COOK, 

.  205 

CONSTANCE, . 

E.  CORBOULD, 

.      G.  STODART, 

215 

CORDELIA,        .        .        . 

K.  MEADOWS,    . 

G.  INGLIS, 

.  223 

THE  ABBESS, . 

J.  J.  JENKINS, 

.      C.  COOK,        .      .      . 

231 

QUEEN  KATHARINE,      . 

J.  HERBERT,       . 

B.  HOLL, 

.  237 

ANNE  BULLEN,    . 

J.  BOSTOCK, 

.      G.  STODART, 

245 

PRINCESS  OF  FRANCE, . 

J.  J.  JENKINS,   . 

W.  H.  MOTE,      . 

.  251 

MARGARET  OF  ANJOU, 

J.  HERBERT, 

.      W.  H.  MOTE, 

257 

QUEEN  MARGARET, 

J.  HERBERT,       . 

W.  J.  EDWARDS, 

.  261 

JOAN  OF  ARC,  . 

E.  COEBOULD, 

.      G.  INGLIS,     . 

265 

LADY  GREY,  . 

F.  P.  STEPHANOFF,    . 

C.  COOK, 

.  271 

LADY  ANNE,     . 

C.  R.  LESLIE,    R.  A. 

.       W.  H.  MOTE, 

277 

LADY  PERCY, 

J.  J.  JENKINS,  . 

G.  STODART,      . 

.  283 

PRINCESS  KATHARINE, 

J.  J.  JENKINS, 

.      G.  STODART, 

287 

PORTIA  (wife  of  Brutus.) 

K.  MEADOWS,    . 

J.  PUTRIM, 

.  291 

VLRGILIA,  . 

K.  MEADOWS, 

.      W.  J.  EDWARDS,    . 

295 

LAVINIA, 

J.  BOSTOCK,        . 

J.  C.  ARMYTAGE, 

.  301 

TAMORA, 

J.  E.  HERBERT,      . 

.      H.  AUSTIN,    . 

302 

THE   DESCRIPTIONS. 


LADY  MACBETH, 
JULIET, 
OPHELIA,       . 
IMOGEN,     . 
MIRANDA,      . 
DESDEMONA,     . 
ROSALIND,    . 
CELIA, 
BEATRICE, 
HERO, 
JULIA, 
SILVIA, 
VIOLA, 
OLIVIA, 
MARIA, 
PORTIA,       . 
JESSICA, 
PERDITA,    . 
HERMIONE,    . 
MISTRESS  FORD, 
MISTRESS  PAGE, 


PAGB 

,     11 

Momeo  and  Juliet,      ,        . 

17 

.     29 

Cymbeline,         .   ■     . 

37 

The  Tempest, 

.     47 

As  You  Like  It,    . 

.     61 

As  You  Like  It, 

69 

Much  Ado  About  Nothing,    . 

.     73 

Much  Ado  About  Nothing, 

81 

Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona,    . 

.     87 

Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona, 

97 

Twelfth  Night, 

.  103 

Twelfth  Night,  . 

109 

Twelfth  Night, 

.  113 

Merchant  of  Venice,  . 

.       117 

Merchant  of  Venice, 

.  125 

Winters  Tale,    . 

129 

Winters  Tale, 

.  135 

Merry  Wives  of  Windsor, 

.       143 

Merry  Wives  of  Windsor,    . 

.  147 

10 


THE   DESCRIPTIONS. 


PAGB 

ANNE  PAGE,      ....  Merry  Wives  of  Windsor,         .      151 

ISABELLA, Measure  for  Measure,    .        .        .  155 

CLEOPATRA,      ....  Antony  and  Cleopatra,      .        .       163 

CRESSLDA,      .        .        .        ...  Troilus  and  Cressida,    .        .        .177 

HELEN, Troilus  and  Cressida,        .         .       183 

CASSANDRA,         ...        -  Troilus  and  Cressida,,  .        .        .187 

THE  SHREW,      ....  Taming  of  the  Shrew,        .        .       191 

HELENA, AWs  Well  that  Ends  Well,           .197 

TETANIA, Midsummer  Night's  Dream,     .      205 

CONSTANCE, King  John,        .        .        .        .215 

CORDELIA  ...        .        King  Lear, 223 

THE  ABBESS,          Comedy  of  Errors,     .        .        .'231 

KATHARINE  OF  ARRAGON,  .  King  Henry  VIII.,      .        .        .237 

ANNE  BTJLLEN, King  Henry  VIII,  .        .        .245 

PRINCESS  OF  FRANCE,   .        .  love's  labour  lost,              .        .251 

MARGARET  OF  ANJOU,      .        .  King  Henry  VI,       .        .        .       257 

JOAN  OF  ARC,            .        .        .  King  Henry  VI,          ...  265 

LADY  GREY,           ....  King  Henry  VI,       .        \               271 

LADY  ANNE,      .        .        .        .  King  Richard  III,       .        .        .277 

LADY  PERCY,        ....  King  Henry  IV.,       .        .        .283 

PRINCESS  KATHARINE,          .  King  Henry  V,    .        .        .        .  287 

PORTIA  (wife  of  Brutus),        .        .  Julius  Ccesar,     ....       291 

VIRGLLIA,  .        .        .        .        .         Coriolanus, 295 

LAYINIA,        .....  Titus  Andronicus,      .        .        .      301 


LADY    MACBETH. 


Graoch,  Lady  Macbeth,  was  the  wife  of  a  renowned  Scottish 
general  in  the  royal  army,  of  near  kin  to  Duncan,  the  reigning 
king.  Returning  from  victorious  warfare  against  rebellious  troops, 
in  company  with  his  comrade,  Banquo,  an  officer  of  rank  similar 
to  his  own,  Macbeth  was  accosted  by  three  witches,  who  prophe- 
sied that  he  should  be  king.  This  extraordinary  good  fortune — 
for  witchcraft  was  then  in  high  repute — he  hastened  to  communi- 
cate to  his  wife,  a  woman  of  towering  ambition,  who  immediately 
set  about  contriving  the  speediest  plan  to  realize  the  promise  of 
the  weird  sisters. 

Chance  rendered  timely  aid  to  her  unscrupulous  purpose. 
King  Duncan,  surnamed  the  Meek,  for  his  amiable  virtues,  desir- 
ing to  signally  honor  his  faithful  servant,  made  a  visit  to  Macbeth's 
castle,  accompanied  by  his  two  sons  and  gentlemen  of  the  court. 
After  the  royal  guest  had  retired  for  the  night,  his  chamberlains 
having  been  drugged  by  Lady  Macbeth,  her  husband,  confirmed 
in  his  half-conceived  treachery  by  the  daring  woman,  murdered 
the  good  old  king  in  his  sleep. 

The  two  princes  fled  for  their  lives — the  one  to  England,  the 
other  to  Ireland ;  and  Macbeth,  as  next  of  kin,  was  proclaimed 


12  LADY    MACBETH. 

King  of  Scotland ;  thus  bringing  to  pass  the  witches'  words,  and 
realizing  his  wife's  inordinate  aspirations. 

And  now  Macbeth  remembered,  how  it  had  been  promised  to 
Banquo  that  his  issne  should  succeed  to  the  throne ;  and  this 
thought  so  rankled  in  the  minds  of  the  guilty  pair,  that  they  de- 
termined to  put  to  death  Banquo  and  his  son,  to  secure  to  their 
own  posterity  the  honors  for  which  they  had  paid  so  dearly.  Ac- 
cordingly Banquo  was  murdered  by  hired  assassins,  on  his  return 
from  a  grand  feast  given  by  his  friend,  King  Macbeth ;  but  his  son 
Fleance  escaped  into  a  neighboring  country  ;  and  from  him  event- 
ually descended  a  long  line  of  Scottish  monarchs. 

Thus,  from  one  desperate  crime  to  another  the  wretched  king 
was  impelled,  by  morbid  fear  of  conspirators  against  his  dignity 
or  his  life,  till  the  people,  exasperated,  took  violent  measures  to 
free  themselves  from  his  tyranny.  Lady  Macbeth  died,  an  un- 
pitied  victim  to  "  a  mind  diseased  ; "  and  her  husband  was  killed 
in  personal  encounter  with  Macduff,  a  Scottish  nobleman,  whose 
wife  and  children  had  been  inhumanly  butchered  by  the  usurper's 
order.  Malcolm,  the  lawful  successor  of  Duncan  the  Meek,  was 
raised  to  the  throne. 


This  is  one  of  the  many  plays  of  Shakspeare  in  which  the 
superstitious  element  constitutes  a  distinguishing  feature  ;  its 
supernatural  effects  are  neither  childish  nor  commonplace ;  they 
contribute  in  no  small  degree  to  the  depicting  of  a  terrible  retri- 
bution, and  are  imbued  with  all  the  weirdness  of  the  Black  Art, 
in  the  days  when  the  wisest  believed  in,  and  the  boldest  trembled 
before,  its  revelations. 

Of  all  the  Shakspearian  Sisterhood,  there  is  perhaps  least  una- 


LADY    MACBETH.  13 

niniity  of  opinion  as  to  the  character  of  Lady  Macbeth.  She 
enjoys  the  distinction  of  being  a  successful  puzzle  to  critics  and 
commentators,  who  have  exhausted  even  their  ingenuity  in  at- 
tempting to  deduce  from  her  attributes  any  satisfactory  conclu- 
sions. In  the  wide  range  of  opinion  she  exists,  successively :  as  a 
monstrous  horror,  delighting,  vampire-like,  in  blood,  for  its  own 
sake ;  a  "  pure  demoniac,"  abstract  incarnation  of  cruelty ;  a  vul- 
gar, vixenish  fury ;  and  a  magnificent  instance  of  the  perversion, 
by  one  bad  passion,  of  the  rarest  natural  endowments — powerful 
intellect,  marvellous  force,  and  strong  affections. 

It  is  almost  needless  to  say  that  the  latter  is  the  nearest  ap- 
proach to  an  intelligent  appreciation  of  Lady  Macbeth.  Intellect 
and  force  we  must  all  concede  to  her ;  and  notwithstanding  our 
first  impulse  to  deny  her  any  thing  "  pure  womanly,"  her  affections 
are  as  profound  as  may  coexist  with  a  mind  exclusively  masculine, 
and  a  heart  fully  possessed  of  a  very  devil  of  ambition. 

It  has  been  contended,  with  amiable  plausibility,  that  this  am- 
bition was  entertained  only  for  her  husband — that  it  was  her  com- 
plete identification  of  her  own  with  his  hopes  and  far-reaching 
aspirations  which  thus  steeled  her  conscience,  her  woman's  tender- 
ness, her  very  physique,  to  an  insane  indifference  to  crimes,  how- 
ever revolting,  so  they  but  advanced  his  fortunes.  But  it  is  not 
easy  to  discover  this  absorbing  passion  for  her  husband  in  Lady 
Macbeth,  or,  indeed,  any  higher  regard  for  him  than  the  half-con- 
temptuous, yet  tenacious,  affection  almost  always  entertained  by 
"  strong-minded  "  women  for  men  greatly  inferior  to  themselves  in 
force  of  character  and  intellect.  On  the  other  hand,  Macbeth's 
implicit  confidence  in  his  wife,  his  boundless  admiration  of  her 
courage,  even  in  crime,  his  dependence  upon  her  in  every  emer- 
gency to  which  he  feels  himself  unequal,  are  but  the  tribute  which 
every  vacillating  character,  uncertain  of  its  own  powers,  suspicious 


U  LADY    MACBETH. 

of  its  best  efforts,  pays  to  a  forcible,  self-asserting  nature,  capable 
of  swaying  it  at  its  own  grand  will. 

The  individualization  of  Lady  Macbeth  is  almost  independent 
of  her  social  relations,  of  her  sex  even ;  she  is  that  hateful  acci- 
dent, a  masculine  heart,  soul,  and  brain,  clothed  with  a  female  hu- 
manity. Even  the  few  touches  of  pathos  or  tenderness,  introduced 
to  remind  us  of  her  sex,  as  it  were,  would  be  natural  to  any  man 
not  positively  monstrous ;  and  her  final  remorse,  madness,  and 
death,  we  cannot  regard  as  the  repentance,  or  even  horror,  of  the 
soul  for  its  own  deeds,  but  simply  as  the  consequences  of  an  organ- 
ization physically  inadequate  to  the  demands  of  a  too  vigorous 
intellect. 

In  the  same  manner,  the  almost  diabolic  nerve  displayed  by 
her  on  the  night  of  the  king's  murder,  and  subsequently,  is  plainly 
a  mental  victory  over  a  body  as  frail  as  becomes  her  sex  ;  the  mo- 
ment her  vigilance  is  relaxed,  or  the  immediate  necessity  for  its 
exercise  is  removed,  the  fragile  structure  gives  way,  and  drags 
down  to  its  pitiful  level  all  the  splendors  which  have  glorified  its 
weakness. 

What  we  mean  to  say  is  :  that  a  man,  having  had  the  wicked- 
ness to  plan,  the  courage  to  dare,  the  nerve  to  execute,  so  revolt- 
ing a  crime  as  the  murder  of  an  anointed  king,  who  was  more- 
over an  illustrious  kinsman  and  a  condescending  guest,  would  have 
lived  on  to  the  end  with  as  little  remorse  as  Lady  Macbeth  really 
felt,  and  with  none  of  the  physical  demonstrations  which  may 
easily  be  mistaken  for  it.  Separate  Lady  Macbeth  the  indi- 
vidual, from  Lady  Macbeth  the  woman,  and  the  mystery  of  hei 
character  is  at  once  cleared — she  is  woman  in  her  incarnation 
only. 

The  text,  oddly  enough,  supports  our  theory,  in  not  affording 
a  single  hint  of  her  person,  whether  tall  or  short,  dark  or  fair. 


LADY    MACBETH.  15 

We  are  told  by  Mrs.  Jameson  that  Mrs.  Siddons  "  had  an  idea 
that  she  was  a  small,  fair,  blue-eyed  woman,  from  her  Celtic 
origin ; "  she  adds,  however,  that  she  cannot  help  fancying  Lady 
Macbeth  dark,  like  Black  Agnes  of  Douglas,  which  we  imagine 
must  agree  with  the  popular  notion  of  her  person. 

We  take  our  leave  of  Lady  Macbeth  with  the  following  solilo- 
quies— both  well  known,  and  most  characteristic.  The  first  occurs 
on  the  receipt  of  her  husband's  letter,  announcing  the  prophetic 
salutations  of  the  three  witches ;  the  second  on  hearing  that  the 
king  will  sleep  that  night  at  the  Castle: 

Lady  Jf.    ****** 
******** 

Glamis  thou  art,  and  Cawdor ;  and  shalt  be 

"What  thou  art  promis'd  : — Yet  do  I  fear  thy  nature  ; 

It  is  too  full  o'  the  milk  of  human  kindness, 

To  catch  the  nearest  way.    Thou  would'st  be  great, 

Art  not  without  ambition  ;  but  without 

The  illness  should  attend  it.     What  thou  would'st  highly, 

That  would'st  thou  holily ;  would'st  not  play  false, 

And  yet  would'st  wrongly  win.     Thou'dst  have,  great  Glamis, 

That  which  cries,  TJius  thou  must  do,  if  thou  have  it ; 

And  that  which  rather  thou  dost  fear  to  do. 

Than  wishest  shoidd  be  undone.    Hie  thee  hither, 

That  I  may  pour  my  spirits  in  thine  ear, 

And  chastise  with  the  valor  of  my  tongue 

All  that  impedes  thee  from  the  golden  round 

Which  fate  and  metaphysical  aid  doth  seem 

To  have  thee  crown'd  withal. 

******       »pjie  raven  uimseif  is  hoarse 
That  croaks  the  fatal  entrance  of  Duncan 
Under  my  battlements.     Come,  come,  you  spirits 
That  tend  on  mortal  thoughts  !  unsex  me  here, 
And  fill  me,  from  the  crown  to  the  toe,  top-full 
Of  direst  cruelty  !  make  thick  my  blood  ! 
Stop  up  the  access  and  passage  to  remorse, 


10  LADY    MACBETH. 

That  no  compunctious  visitings  of  nature 
Shake  my  fell  purpose,  nor  keep  peace  between 
The  effect  and  it !     Come  to  my  woman's  breasts, 
And  take  my  milk  for  gall,  you  murd'ring  ministers, 
Wherever  in  your  sightless  substances 
You  wait  on  nature's  mischief!     Come,  thick  Night, 
And  pall  thee  in  the  dunnest  smoke  of  hell ! 
That  my  keen  knife  see  not  the  wound  it  makes, 
Nor  Heaven  peep  through  the  blanket  of  the  dark, 
To  cry,  ITold,  hold! 

For  tne  somnambulic  scene,  that  master-piece  of  physiological 
effect,  which  would  suffer  by  mutilation,  we  refer  our  readers  to 
the  text. 


<M^eu 


JULIET. 


Juliet  was  the  only  daughter,  and  heiress,  of  the  Capulets,  one 
of  the  proudest  families  of  Verona,  conspicuous  for  the  deadly 
enmity  existing  between  them  and  the  equally  influential  Mon- 
tagues. When  Juliet  had  arrived  at  marriageable  age,  her  father 
gave  a  grand  masque  at  his  palace,  to  which  all  the  beauty  and 
nobility  of  Verona  were  bid — among  whom  was  Rosaline,  niece  to 
old  Capulet,  a  fair  but  disdainful  beauty,  beloved  by  young  Romeo 
Montague.  To  cure  him  of  a  hopeless  passion,  his  friend,  Ben- 
volio,  persuaded  him  to  go  to  the  entertainment,  strictly  disguised, 
and  there  compare  his  fair  Rosaline  with  the  excelling  beauties 
who  would  be  present. 

Accordingly,  Romeo  and  Benvolio,  masked  with  studious  pre- 
caution, for  discovery  would  have  been  perilous,  took  part  in  the 
gay  revel ;  and  the  young  Montague  no  sooner  beheld  the  beautiful 
Juliet  than  he  forgot  his  Rosaline,  and  became  passionately  en- 
amored of  the  fair  Capulet.  It  was  in  his  recklessly  enthusiastic 
praise  of  her  charms  to  Benvolio,  that  he  was  overheard  by  Tybalt, 
a  hot-headed  young  kinsman  of  the  Capulets,  and  recognized  by 
<  >ice ;  Tybalt  would  have  laid  violent  hands  on  him  at  once, 
but  old  Capulet  interfered.    That  very  night,  after  the  guests  had 


18  JULIET. 

departed,  and  the  inmates  of  the  Capulet  mansion  had  retired  to 
their  chambers,  Romeo,  spurred  on  by  this  new  and  irresistible 
passion,  climbed  the  garden  wall,  and  beheld  the  lady  of  his  love 
seated  on  a  balcony,  indulging  in  the  delicious  reveries  consequent 
upon  her  interview,  in  the  ball-room,  with  Romeo.  Overhearing 
her  rapturous  soliloquy,  in  which  she  called  his  name,  he  replied 
to  it ;  and  they  parted  only  after  exchanging  vows  of  everlasting 
constancy,  and  a  promise  to  meet  at  Friar  Laurence's  cell  the  next 
day,  for  the  solemnization  of  their  nuptials.  On  the  morrow,  ac- 
cordingly, Romeo  and  Juliet  were  married  by  the  holy  Friar,  who 
thought  by  this  union  to  cancel  forever  the  bitter  feud  between 
their  houses  ;  but  that  very  day,  Tybalt,  still  intent  upon  avenging 
the  insolent  intrusion  of  Romeo,  met  him  in  the  street,  provoked 
a  quarrel,  fought  with  him,  and  was  killed. 

For  this  fatal  broil,  the  Prince  of  Verona  banished  Romeo, 
who,  after  taking  a  brief  farewell  of  his  few  hours'  bride,  betook 
himself  to  Mantua.  Juliet's  tears  and  lamentations  were  attributed 
to  her  grief  for  the  loss  of  her  cousin  Tybalt — the  sooner  to  dissi- 
pate which,  her  father  insisted  upon  marrying  her  almost  immedi- 
ately to  the  county  Paris,  "  a  gentleman  of  princely  parentage  and 
fair  demesnes ; "  the  wedding-day  was  set,  and  every  preparation 
made. 

Poor  Juliet,  finding  remonstrance  unavailing,  hastened  in  her 
sorrow  to  the  good  Friar,  who  bade  her  feign  obedience  to  her 
father's  will,  and  gave  her  a  potent  drug  which  should  cause  her 
to  appear  as  if  dead — telling  her  that,  while  in  this  state,  she  should 
be  borne  to  the  burial  vault  of  the  Capulets,  whence  he  and  Ro- 
meo, for  whom  he  would  send,  would  rescue  her.  Juliet  fulfilled 
his  instructions ;  in  the  morning,  when  young  Paris  came  with 
music  to  awaken  his  bride,  she  was  found  "  dead,"  and  the  joyful 
festivities  were  changed  into  a  doleful  funeral  service. 


JULIET.  19 

The  Friar  then  despatched  a  special  messenger  to  Romeo,  with 
i  letter  informing  him  of  the  true  case  ;  but  by  some  accident  he 
was  detained,  and  Romeo  received  intelligence  through  another 
source  of  his  wife's  death,  which  so  distracted  him  with  grief  that 
he  procured  a  deadly  poison,  and  repaired  forthwith  to  Juliet's 
tomb,  determined  to  die  on  her  beloved  >  Having  reached 

the  vault  of  the  Capulets,  he  broke  open  the  gloomy  portal,  and 
beheld  the  still  beautiful  body  of  his  adored  lady;  with  one  hdn 
he  drained  the  fatal  bowl,  and  breathed  his  last,  just  as  Juliet 
stroke,  and  the  Friar,  warned  of  the  detention  of  his  envoy,  ar- 
rived in  the  hope  of  preventing  the  impending  disaster. 

This  fatal  catastrophe  was  productive,  however,  of  one  benefi- 
cial result :  the  Capulets  and  the  Montagues  were  ever  after  united 
in  bonds  of  friendship  and  interest — freely  joining  to  do  honor  to 
the  memory  of  those  hapless  victims  to  their  accursed  feud. 


Of  Juliet,  Mrs.  Jameson  says:  "Such  beautiful  things  have 
already  been  said  of  her,  only  to  be  exceeded  in  beauty  by  the 
subject  that  inspired  them,  it  is  impossible  to  say  any  thing  bet- 
ter— but  it  is  possible  to  say  something  more."  Alas  for  our  task  ! 
tlii-  latter  clause  was  true  only  before  Mrs.  Jameson  wrote:  not  a 
detail  of  the  subject  has  been  neglected  by  her  sympathetic  pen  ; 
at  the  best,  we  can  hope  but  to  repeat  her. 

The  loves  of  Romeo  and  Juliet,  though  physiologically,  men- 
tally, and  morally,  possible  only  to  their  traditional  birth-place, 
Italy,  have  in  them  that  "  touch  of  nature  which  makes  the  whole 
world  kin;"  and  it  is  to  this  element  that  we  must  attribute  the 
universal  popularity  of  the  tragedy  which  commemorates  them. 
To  even  the  most  lymphatic  blood,  the  least  susceptible  fancy, 


20  JULIET. 

there  come  those  few,  brief,  "perfect  days,"  when  Passion,  for  the 
first  time,  asserts  its  boundless  sway  over  the  brain  and  the  pulses 
— filling  the  one  with  ecstatic  dreams  of  a  future  as  blissful  as  it  is 
infinite,  kindling  in  the  other  a  tormenting  yet  delicious  tumult ; 
and  in  proportion  to  the  intensity  with  which  we  are  capable  of 
conceiving  these  emotions,  is  our  sympathy  with  this  story  of  two 
lovers,  whose  very  names  may  stand  for  personifications  of  the  pas- 
sion to  which  they  were  beautiful  martyrs. 

At  first  it  is  the  ingenuousness,  the  almost  infantine  simplicity, 
of  Juliet's  character,  which  endears  her  to  our  hearts.  Her  ex 
treme  youth,  her  rare  beauty,  which  has  been  perfected  in  jealous 
seclusion;  her  warm  affections,  repulsed  by  her  austere  parents, 
running  to  waste  on  her  old  nurse, — the  only  familiar  object  about 
which  they  may  twine  their  eager  tendrils  ;  and  finally,  her  love 
for  Romeo,  born  of  a  glance,  a  sigh,  a  touch — yet,  from  the  mo- 
ment of  its  birth,  a  Titan  which  shakes  to  the  centre  her  tender 
soul :  all  these  constitute  a  picture,  of  which  the  interest  and  ro- 
mance are  almost  too  intense. 

Yet  it  is  not  thus — in  the  first,  happy  delirium  of  her  love — 
that  Juliet  engages  our  profoundest  sympathy,  our  liveliest  admi- 
ration. Not  until  Fate  seems  to  have  executed  its  most  pitiless 
freaks  upon  her  solitary  heart;  not  until,  her  husband  ban- 
ished, she  loses  her  sole  friend  and  confidante,  by  the  discovery  of 
her  time-serving  baseness — the  only  mother,  in  familiar  affection, 
she  has  ever  known — and  she,  for  the  first  time  in  her  young  life, 
asserts  her  own  individuality,  invincible  through  the  force  of  her 
love,  does  she  command  that  absorbing  interest  which  would  never 
have  been  awakened  by  mere  self-abandonment  to  passion. 

To  use  the  words  of  Hazlitt,  Juliet  is,  indeed,  "  a  pure  effusion 
of  Nature  " — a  woman  whose  emotions  and  manifestations  are  of 
primeval  innocence   and  vigor — in  whom  Love  is  the  outward 


JULIET.  21 

expression  of  an  instinct  as  beautiful  and  holy  as  it  is  vehement — 
who  is  "  Love  itself — the  passion  which  is  her  state  of  being,  and 
out  of  which  she  has  no  existence."  In  nothing  has  Shakspearc 
proved  his  wondrous  skill  more  clearly  than  in  this  creation  of 
a  human  being  in  whom  sense  asserts  itself  paramount  over 
reason — indeed,  whose  only  manifestations  of  intellect  are  the 
inspirations  of  exalted  sentiment,  a  sensuously  excited  eloquence ; 
and  yet  who  is  endowed  with  such  exquisite  purity,  as  distin- 
guished from  the  false  teachings  of  a  conventional  modesty,  that 
Eve  herself  is  not  more  sacred  from  an  imputation  of  grossness. 

It  is  in  this  view  of  her  character,  and  of  the  idea  which 
Shakspeare  expressed  through  her,  that  we  propose  to  exceed, 
by  a  little,  our  privileges,  to  consider  a  question  which  properly 
belongs  to  the  province  of  legitimate  criticism. 

A  woman  and  a  wife,  to  whom  the  hymeneal  mysteries  are  the 
solemnest  of  rites,  at  whose  altar  she  presides  with  veiled  eyes,  a 
jealous  priestess,  could  almost  reproach  this  awful  Master,  that  he 
has  entered  the  nuptial  chamber  of  Juliet's  soul,  and  exposed  its 
beautiful  secrets  in  words  well-nigh  too  sacred  to  be  pronounced, 
even  to  herself;  but,  since  he  has  done  so,  she  must  bow  before 
him  as  one  unto  whom,  indeed,  all  hearts  were  open ! 

Jul.     Gallop  apace,  you  fiery-footed  steeds, 
Towards  Phoebus'  mansion  !  such  a  waggoner 
As  Phaeton  would  whip  you  to  the  west, 
And  bring  in  cloudy  night  immediately. 
Spread  thy  close  curtain,  love-performing  Night, 
That  run-away's  eyes  may  wink — and  Romeo 
Leap  to  these  arms,  untalk'd  of,  and  unseen ! 


Come,  Night !     Come,  Romeo  !     Come,  thou  day  in  night ! 
For  thou  wilt  lie  upon  the  wings  of  night 
"Whiter  than  new  snow  on  a  raven's  back  ! 


22  JULIET. 

O  !  I  have  bought  the  mansion  of  a  love, 
But  not  possess'd  it ;  and,  though  I  am  sold, 
Not  yet  enjoy'd.     So  tedious  is  this  day, 
As  is  the  night  before  some  festival 
To  an  impatient  child,  that  hath  new  robes 
And  may  not  wear  them. 

In  this  adjuration  to  Night,  which  is  imbued  with  all  the  dim, 
ecstatic  fervor  of  an  epithalamium,  the  one  word  "  run-away  V 
has  given  cause,  perhaps,  for  more  learned  disputation  and  inge- 
nious invention,  to  arrive  at  a  satisfactory  substitute,  than  any 
other  in  all  of  Shakspeare's  much-abused  text.  And  as  to  be  his 
"  scholar "  is  a  position  which  "  the  humblest  may  with  humility 
assume,"  may  we  not  offer,  with  all  becoming  diffidence,  a  sugges- 
tion, which  can  be  valuable  only  because  it  is  the  fruit  of  long 
pondering  with  our  heart  ? 

It  will  be  remembered  that  Juliet,  with  the  quick  susceptibil- 
ity of  an  Italian  woman,  having  seen  Romeo  but  once,  loves  him 
— with  such  absorbing  love  as,  in  a  colder  clime,  would  have 
required  months,  or  even  years,  to  mature ;  the  very  difficulties 
which  surround  them — the  feudal  enmity  between  their  houses, 
which  is  fatal  to  their  hopes — serve  but  to  augment  the  enthusi- 
astic fervor  with  which  she  abandons  herself  to  her  newly  found 
delight.  They  exchange  love-vows  on  the  night  of  their  very  first 
meeting,  and  the  next  day  they  are  joined  by  Holy  Church  in 
wedlock. 

It  is  evidently  late  in  the  afternoon  of  a  long,  long,  weary  day 
of  anxious  hope  and  fear,  and  all  the  delirious  ebbing  and  flowing 
of  her  heart's  full  tide,  that  Juliet  gives  utterance  to  this  pas- 
sionate longing,  as,  trembling  with  the  reaction  of  her  excited 
alarms,  she  sees  almost  within  her  reach  the  blessed  darkness 
which  shall  again  bring  her  lover  to  her — this  time  a  husband ; 


JULIET.  23 

so  that  in  blest  security  her  eyes,  run-awa\fs  eyes — wide  open  the 
livelong  day,  on  the  look-out  lest  the  very  flowers  may  have 
blabbed  her  cherished  secret — jr&j  winh:  that  is,  may  close  in 
grateful  repose,  in  exquisite  peace,  at  last ;  and  that,  shut  in  from 
all  the  world,  as  with  curtains,  ("  Spread  thy  close  curtain,  love- 
performing  Night,")  Romeo  may  leap  to  her  arms,  "  untalk'd  of, 
and  unseen." 

The  term  "  run-away,"  in  her  application  of  it  to  herself,  affects 
us  with  peculiar  tenderness ;  could  any  thing  be  more  touching  in 
its  pretty  playfulness,  more  Juliet-like,  than  for  her  thus  to  liken 
herself  unto  a  naughty  child,  which  has  stolen  away  from  its  par- 
ents to  do  the  very  thing,  of  all  others  in  the  world,  that 
would  most  anger  them?  And  she  pursues  the  image,  in  again 
comparing  herself  to  an  "impatient  child,  that  hath  new  robes 
an.  1  may  not  wear  them."  If  the  original  word  be  "run-aways," 
plural,  the  same  idea  will  apply  equally  to  Romeo  and  herself;  it 
would  be  even  more  natural  for  her  to  couple,  and  name  alike, 
tlicir  identical  transgressions. 

Spread  thy  close  curtain,  love-performing  Night, 
That  run-away's  eyes  may  wink  ;  and  Romeo 
Leap  to  these  arms,  untalk'd  of,  and  unseen  f 

The  formidable  stumbling-block  to  emendators  has  consisted 
in  the  supposed  necessity  of  substituting  for  "run-away's"  a  met- 
aphorical word  to  which  these  two  participles  can  equally  ap- 
ply; but  when  we  consider  the  fact  that  the  discovery  by  her 
cousin  Tybalt,  of  Romeo's  audacious  intrusion  on  their  revel  the 
night  before,  must  have  constituted  the  absorbing  topic  of  conver- 
sation all  day  among  the  members  of  Juliet's  own  family — every 
word  of  which  has  blanched  her  cheek  and  filled  her  soul  with 
quick  alarms — does  it  not  seem  reasonable  that  the  immediate 


24  JULIET. 

reference  for  the  "  untalk'd  of"  should  exist  only  in  her  mind  ?  Is 
not  a  critically  sustained  figure  even  unnatural  to  the  excited  state 
of  imagination  which  inspires  the  whole  passage — and  very  un- 
Shakspearian  besides  ? 

As  for  the  "  unseen,"  why  should  that  refer  to  the  shutting  of 
somebody's  or  something's  eyes,  when  Romeo's  invisibility  de- 
pends only  on  what  she  is  praying  for,  the  coming  of  night  ?  Is 
it  not  far  more  probable  that  the  direct  allusions  of  both  partici- 
ples should  be  "  understood,"  than  that  in  a  soliloquy,  under  the 
influence  of  such  emotions,  Juliet  would  have  employed  a  figure 
so  elaborate,  or  so  remote,  that  its  discovery  has  baffled  the  learn- 
ing and  ingenuity  of  patient  students  from  that  time  to  this  ? 

The  word  Mwnoure's  has  been  advanced  with  confidence,  to 
take  the  place  of  "  run-away's ; "  but — granting  that  Juliet  could 
have  maintained  a  figure  of  speech  unimpaired,  amid  a  chasing 
whirl  of  thoughts  which  found  their  only  relief  in  fantastic  ex- 
travagances without  rule  or  order — in  a  highly  figurative  sense 
how  can  it  be  said  that  Rumor  (meaning  scandal)  ever  shuts  her 
eyes  ?  How  could  Juliet  feel  assured  that  the  simple  coming  of 
night  would  close  the  eyes  of  this  she-Argus,  when  it  is  then  that 
she  is  most  awake,  and  finds  the  choicest  morsels  for  her  flippant 
tongue  ? 

An  accomplished  scholar  and  critic,  Mr.  Richard  Grant  White, 
has  declared :  "  To  correct  a  single  passage  in  Shakspeare's  text  is 
glory  enough  for  one  man.  He  who  discovers  the  needful  word  for 
the  misprint,  '  run-away's  eyes,'  will  secure  the  honorable  mention 
of  his  name  as  long  as  the  English  language  is  read  and  spoken." 

To  rescue  the  same  passage  from  unnecessary  "correction,"  and 
keep  out  "  needful  words  "  where  no  misprint  is,  should  be  glory 
enough  for  one  woman;  and  without  presuming  to  believe  that 
the  writer  of  this  has  succeeded  where  so  many  abler  have  failed, 


JULIET.  25 

she  may  still  venture  to  hope  that  the  promised  honor  may  yet 
tall  to  her  sex.  Where  learning  and  research  have  been  tried  in 
vain,  much  faith  should  be  reposed  in  the  intuitive  poetry,  the 
<lifk-k„sympathetic  understanding  of  a  woman's  heart,  on  a  subject 
wherein  her  instinct-  are  directly  involved ;  and  such  an  interpreter 
will  not  appeal  in  vain  to  the  pure  bridal  mind  of  the  Juliets  of 
to-day,  for  whose  sympathetic  understanding  the  passionate  out- 
l)iu -st  of  their  Shakspearian  sister  has  utterances,  almost  unutter- 
ably true. 

For  a  picture  of  superlative  delicacy,  the  boldness  of  conscious 
innocence,  and  the  delicious  flutterings  of  a  young  heart  wherein 
Love  has  but  commenced  the  erection  of  his  airy  throne,  Juliet  in 
the  balcony  scene  is  unapproached.  Hazlitt  says  of  this  scene,  and 
that  where  the  lovers  part,  the  morning  after  their  marriage : 
"  Both  are  like  a  heaven  upon  earth — the  blissful  bowers  of  Para- 
dise let  down  upon  this  lower  world." 

From  the  first,  which  we  all  know  by  heart — where  "the 
whole  of  the  dialogue  appropriated  to  Juliet  is  one  rich  stream  of 
imagery" — the  following  extract,  alone,  will  suffice  to  prove  that 
Juliet's  character  is  the  union  of  "  passionate  violence  "  with  the 
rarest  refinement  and  most  delicate  purity : 

Jul.     Thou  know'st  the  mask  of  night  is  on  my  face ; 
Else  would  a  maiden  blush  bepaint  my  check, 
For  that  which  thou  hast  heard  me  speak  to-night. 
Fain  would  I  dwell  on  form — fain,  fain  deny 
"What  I  have  spoke  ;  But  farewell,  compliment ! 
Dost  thou  love  me  ?    I  know  thou  wilt  say — Ay ; 
And  I  will  take  thy  word.    Yet,  if  thou  swear'st, 
Thou  may'st  prove  false ;  at  lovers'  perjuries 
They  say  Jove  laughs.    O  gentle  Romeo, 
If  thou  dost  love,  pronounce  it  faithfully ; 
Or  if  thou  think'st  I  am  too  quickly  won, 
I'll  frown,  and  be  perverse,  and  say  thee  nay — 
4 


26  JULIET. 

So  thou  wilt  woo ;  but,  else,  not  for  the  world. 
In  truth,  fair  Montague,  I  am  too  fond  ; 
And  therefore  thou  may'st  think  my  haviour  light : 
But  trust  me,  gentleman,  I'll  prove  more  true 
Than  those  that  have  more  cunning  to  he  strange. 
I  should  have  been  more  strange,  I  must  confess, 
But  that  thou  overheard'st,  ere  I  was  ware, 
My  true  love's  passion.    Therefore  pardon  me, 
And  not  impute  this  yielding  to  light  love,         , 
Which  the  dark  night  hath  so  discovered. 


Well,  do  not  swear.    Although  I  joy  in  thee, 
I  have  no  joy  of  this  contract  to-night : 
It  is  too  rash,  too  unadvis'd,  too  sudden — 
Too  like  the  lightning,  which  doth  cease  to  be, 
Ere  one  can  say — It  lightens.    Sweet,  good  night ! 
This  bud  of  love,  by  summer's  ripening  breath, 
May  prove  a  beauteous  flower  when  next  we  meet. 
Good  night,  good  night !  as  sweet  repose  and  rest 
Come  to  thy  heart,  as  that  within  my  breast ! 

Without  vain  preface  of  admiration,  here  is  the  other : 

Jul.     Wilt  thou  be  gone  ?  it  is  not  yet  near  day : 
It  was  the  nightingale,  and  not  the  lark, 
That  pierc'd  the  fearful  hollow  of  thine  ear ; 
Nightly  she  sings  on  yon  pomegranate  tree — 
Believe  me,  love,  it  was  the  nightingale. 

Horn.      It  was  the  lark,  the  herald  of  the  morn, 
No  nightingale.    Look,  love,  what  envious  streaks 
Do  lace  the  severing  clouds  in  yonder  east ! 
Night's  candles  are  burnt  out,  and  jocund  Day 
Stands  tiptoe  on  the  misty  mountain  tops ; 
I  must  be  gone  and  live,  or  stay  and  die. 

Jul.      Yon  light  is  not  day-light — I  know  it,  I : 
It  is  some  meteor  that  the  sun  exhales, 
To  be  to  thee  this  night  a  torch-bearer, 
And  light  thee  on  thy  way  to  Mantua. 
Therefore  stay  yet,  thou  need'st  not  to  be  gone. 


JULIET.  21 

Rom.     Let  me  be  ta'en,  let  me  be  put  to  death  ; 
I  am  content,  so  thou  wilt  have  it  so. 
I'll  say  yon  gray  is  not  the  morning's  eye —  ' 
'TIS  but  the  pale  reflex  of  Cynthia's  brow  ; 
Nor  that  is  not  the  lark,  whose  notes  do  beat 
The  vaulty  heaven  so  high  above  our  heads. 
I  have  more  care  to  stay  than  will  to  go ; — 
Come,  Death,  and  welcome !    Juliet  wills  it  so. — 
How  is't,  my  soul  ?    Let's  talk,  it  is  not  day. 

Jul.     It  is,  it  is !    Hie  hence,  be  gone,  away ! 
It  is  the  lark  that  sings  so  out  of  tune, 
Straining  harsh  discords,  and  unpleasing  sharps. 
Some  say  the  lark  makes  sweet  division  ; 
This  doth  not  so,  for  she  divideth  us. 
Some  say  the  lark  and  loathed  toad  change  eyes  ; 
O,  now  I  would  they  had  changed  voices  too ! 
Since  arm  from  arm  that  voice  doth  us  affray, 
Hunting  thee  hence  with  hunts-up  to  the  day. 
O,  now  be  gone  !  more  light  and  light  it  grows. 

Rom.     More  light  and  light  ? — more  dark  and  dark  our  woes. 

Instead  of  ignoring  the  personal  charms  of  Juliet  in  the  su- 
perior interest  which  attaches  to  the  tragic  events  of  her  story — 
as  is  true  of  almost  every  other  woman  in  this  fair  company — there 
is  no  situation  in  the  whole  play  of  such  dramatic  intensity  that  it 
compels  us  to  lose  sight  of  them,  so  completely  is  the  whole  picture 
imbued  with  their  excelling  richness. 

The  single  description  by  Romeo,  as  he  gazes  for  the  first  time 
on  her  who  will  be  his  wife  ere  another  night  rolls  round,  is  suffi- 
cient, of  itself,  to  set  her  forever  in  our  mind's  eye,  a  thing  of  beauty 
and  u  a  joy  forever." 

O,  she  doth  teach  the  torches  to  burn  bright ! 
Her  beauty  hangs  upon  the  cheek  of  Night 
Like  a  rich  jewel  in  an  Ethiop's  ear — 
Beauty  too  rich  for  use,  for  earth  too  dear ! 
So  shows  a  snowy  dove  trooping  with  crows, 
As  yonder  lady  o'er  her  fellows  shows. 


28  JULIET 

And  not  less  to  this  effect  is  his  address  to  her,  as  she  lies  on  her 
bier  in  the  tomb  of  the  Capulets : 

Here  lies  Juliet ;  and  her  beauty  makes 
This  vault'  a  feasting  presence  full  of  light. 


*        *        *        *  O,  my  love !  my  wife ! 

Death,  that  hath  suck'd  the  honey  of  thy  breath, 
Hath  had  no  power  yet  upon  thy  beauty. 
Thou  art  not  conquer'd ;  Beauty's  ensign  yet 
Is  crimson  in  thy  lips  and  in  thy  cheeks, 
And  Death's  pale  flag  is  not  advanced  there. 


*        *        *         *  Ah,  dear  Juliet, 

Why  art  thou  yet  so  fair  ?     Shall  I  believe 
That  unsubstantial  Death  is  amorous, 
And  that  the  lean  abhorred  monster  keeps 
Thee  here  in  dark  to  be  his  paramour  ? 


HAMLE'! 


OPHELIA. 

Ophelia,  daughter  of  Polonius,  lord-chamberlain  to  Claudius, 
King  of  Denmark,  was  beloved  by  Prince  Hamlet,  son  of  the  pre- 
vious, and  nephew  of  the  then  reigning  sovereign ;  for  Queen  Ger- 
trude, Hamlet's  mother,  had  with  indecent  haste  married  her  de- 
ceased husband's  brother.  The  shame  of  this  unseemly  conduct  in 
his  mother,  added  to  grief  for  the  death  of  his  revered  father,  had 
so  preyed  on  the  mind  of  Hamlet,  that  a  morbid  melancholy  took 
possession  of  him,  and,  it  would  seem,  endowed  him  with  super- 
natural prescience  to  suspect  that  his  father  had  been  murdered 
by  his  uncle,  who  had  crowned  his  wicked  ambition  by  marrying 
the  queen-widow.  While  in  this  state  of  distracting  doubt,  he 
was  informed,  by  some  gentlemen  of  the  court,  that  as  they  were 
on  guard  before  the  palace,  the  ghost  of  the  late  king,  his  noble 
father,  had  appeared  to  them  three  successive  nights ;  whereupon, 
Hamlet  watched  with  them,  to  test  the  truth  of  their  words.  At 
midnight  the  ghost  appeared,  and  beckoned  to  Hamlet  to  follow  it 
to  a  retired  spot,  where  to  his  amazed  ears  it  revealed  the  story  of 
its  murder  by  the  treacherous  brother,  and  commanded  Hamlet  to 
avenge  the  foul  deed,  but  to  leave  the  punishment  of  the  guilty 
queen  to  Heaven  and  her  own  conscience :  and  then,  as  the  cock 
crew,  the  poor  ghost  vanished. 


30  OPHELIA. 

Henceforth,  self-dedicated  to  retribution,  Hamlet  counterfeited 
a  harmless  insanity,  with  fantastic  tricks  and  "  wild  and  whirling  " 
words,  calculated  to  distract  attention  from  his  secret  purpose. 

The  king  and  queen,  believing  that  the  death  of  his  father  had 
occasioned  this  deplorable  result,  devised  amusements  to  divert  his 
mind :  a  company  of  players  having  been  summoned  to  court, 
Hamlet  seized  the  opportunity,  and  made  use  of  them  to  prove  to 
his  own  satisfaction  the  truth  of  the  ghost's  communication.  He 
contrived  for  their  representation  a  play,  to  be  performed  before 
the  king,  which  should  reproduce  to  the  life  the  scene  of  his 
father's  murder,  as  described  by  the  ghost — the  wife  marrying 
with  the  poisoner  of  her  husband. 

The  snare  was  successful ;  the  guilty  fears  of  the  king  betrayed 
him ;  with  incoherent  exclamations  he  interrupted  the  play,  and 
retreated,  all  aghast,  from  the  apartment. 

Immediately  after  this  scene  of  confusion,  Queen  Gertrude 
summoned  Hamlet  to  her  closet,  intending  to  remonstrate  with 
him  upon  his  indecorous  behavior ;  and  during  the  somewhat  vio- 
lent altercation  between  them,  he  heard  a  noise  behind  the  hang- 
ings of  the  room.  Suspecting  that  the  king  was  concealed  there, 
he  exclaimed,  in  an  assumed  frenzy,  "  A  rat !  a  rat ! "  and  pierced 
the  arras  with  his  sword,  thereby  killing  the  wily  old  statesman, 
Polonius,  who  had  been  posted  to  take  note  of  the  interview. 

This  fatal  mistake  served  as  a  pretext  for  sending  Hamlet  out 
of  the  country — there  being  much  disaffection  among  the  people 
consequent  upon  the  unwarrantable  murder  of  Polonius  ;  and  the 
king  despatched  him  to  England,  with  secret  papers  providing  for 
his  assassination  immediately  on  his  arrival.  The  ship  being  at- 
tacked by  pirates  on  the  voyage,  Hamlet  boarded  their  vessel  dur 
ing  the  fight,  and  the  king's  creatures  put  off  at  once,  leaving  him 
to  his  fate.     The  pirates,  on  learning  the  rank  of  their  captive, 


OPHELIA.  31 

treated  him  with  singular  respect,  and  in  consideration  of  his 
promise  to  exert  a  merciful  influence  in  their  behalf,  landed  him, 
unharmed,  on  the  shores  of  Denmark. 

In  the  meanwhile,  however,  the  gentle  lady  Ophelia,  over- 
whelmed with  grief  for  the  madness  of  her  lover,  and  horror  of  her 
father's  murder  by  his  hand,  had  languished  and  "  pined  in  thought," 
till  her  mind  became  hopelessly  imbecile.  She  wandered  about  at 
her  own  lost  will,  bedecked  with  fantastic  finery,  chanting  snatches 
of  old  ballads,  her  modest  tongue  now  babbling  coarse  jests ;  and 
one  day,  climbing  a  willow  that  grew  on  the  margin  of  a  brook,  to 
hang  a  garland  on  its  far-reaching  bough,  the  slender  limb  broke, 
and  she  was  precipitated  into  the  stream : 

Her  clothes  spread  wide, 
And,  mermaid  like,  a  while  they  bore  her  up : 
Which  time,  she  chanted  snatches  of  old  tunes, 
As  one  incapable  of  her  own  distress, 
Or  like  a  creature  native  arid  indu'd 
Unto  that  element.    But  long  it  could  not  be, 
Till  that  her  garments,  heavy  with  their  drink, 
Pull  d  the  poor  wretch  from  her  melodious  lay 
To  muddy  death. 

The  funeral  of  the  hapless  lady  was  celebrated  with  all  affection 
and  honorable  ceremony,  the  king  and  queen  in  person  taking  part 
in  her  obsequies ;  and  it  was  this  sad  spectacle  which  greeted 
Hamlet  on  his  return  home — the  procession  entering  the  church- 
yard while  he  was  loitering  there,  in  conversation  with  his  friend 
Horatio.  Frantic  with  grief,  cruelly  augmented  by  such  sudden 
intelligence  of  Ophelia's  death,  and  the  manner  of  it,  he  leaped 
into  her  grave,  vowing  to  be  buried  alive  with  her  whom  he  had 
loved  so  fondly,  till  the  horrible  purpose  of  his  life  had  driven 
every  other  emotion  from  his  harassed  mind. 


32  OPHELIA. 

Hamlet,  shortly  after  this  sad  event,  met  his  death  at  the  hands 
of  Laertes,  with  whom  he*was  engaged  in  a  fencing  match  in  the 
presence  of  the  conrt.  The  king  had  easily  won  over  Laertes  to 
play  treacherously  with  Hamlet,  and  had  prepared  a  poisoned 
draught  for  the  prince,  in  case  he  should  escape  the  envenomed 
blade  of  his  adversary.  The  queen,  not  privy  to  the  king's  plot, 
drank  of  the  fatal  bowl,  from  the  effects  of  which  she  died  on  the 
spot.  Laertes  and  Hamlet  wounded  each  other  mortally  with  the 
poisoned  foil,  which  changed  hands  in  the  scuffle.  In  his  dying 
agonies  Laertes  confessed  his  vile  plot  with  the  king,  and  Hamlet, 
with  his  last  remaining  strength,  stabbed  the  royal  parricide  to  the 
heart  with  the  same  weapon  which  had  dealt  his  own  death-blow. 


We  shrink  from  the  task  of  dissecting  the  sensitive  beauties  of 
Ophelia's  character,  as  we  should  from  the  necessity  of  tearing 
apart  the  blushing  bosom  of  a  rose  to  count  its  stamens,  or  of  im- 
paling a  butterfly  to  ascertain  its  "  family ; "  we  prefer  to  have  a 
not  too  sharply  defined  idea  of  this  most  delicate  embodiment,  to 
accept  her  as  a  beautiful  article  of  faith,  which  it  is  neither  neces- 
sary nor  desirable  to  thoroughly  understand. 

Ophelia  is  a  more  ideal,  a  more  purely  imaginative  creation 
than  Juliet  or  Desdemona ;  with  the  story  of  her  youth,  her  ten- 
der beauty,  her  hapless  love  which  leads  to  insanity  and  a  tragic 
death,  we  sympathize  less  painfully  than  with  the  sorrows  of  those 
more  vividly  depicted  heroines .;  indeed  the  very  tints,  pale  yet 
enduring,  in  which  her  shadowy  outline  is  traced,  constitute  a 
touching  appeal  to  the  hand  of  a  would-be  "  restorer ; "  one  should 
be  content  to  spare  her  retiring  delicacy  any  sentiment  of  pity 
more  impertinently  familiar  than  a  tender  pathos. 


OPHELIA.  33 

The  childlike  nature  of  Ophelia,  innocent  of  even  the  knowl- 
edge of  evil,  impresses  us  from  the  first  with  the  conviction  that 
she  is  foredoomed  a  victim — a  beautiful  but  inevitable  sacrifice  to 
relentless  Destiny.  Amid  the  bad  passions,  the  subtle  plottings, 
the  tasteless  criminality  of  the  Danish  court,  she  alights,  a  dove  of 
gentleness  and  love,  a  very  snowflake  of  virginity ;  she  must  die, 
or  suffer  contamination — and  she  fulfils  the  only  alternative  possi- 
ble to  her.  In  contradistinction  to  our  almost  resentful  contem- 
plation of  the  sad  fates  which  befall  Juliet  and  Desdemona,  we  are 
perfectly  reconciled  to  the  melancholy  consummation  of  Ophelia's 
woes.  We  feel  that,  to  her,  reaction  from  so  blasting  a  shock 
would  be  impossible — that  after  the  first  rude  jarring  of  her  deli- 
cately attuned  sensibilities,  which  leaves  them  shattered  and  dis- 
cordant, their  sweet  harmony  can  never  again  be  restored. 

It  is  pitiful  to  note  how  this  young  creature,  whose  love  is  so 
exquisitely  sensitive  that  she  scarce  confesses  it  to  herself,  is  tor- 
tured by  the  tactless  catechizing  of  her  hot-headed  brother,  and 
her  garrulous,  worldly-wise  old  father — of  all  men  the  two  least 
fitted  to  probe  the  tender  depths  of  her  heart,  and  having  found 
its  secret,  to  advise  her  of  her  danger  without  corrupting  her  an- 
gelic purity. 

The  very  faith  she  reposes  in  their  words,  accepting  them  as 
oracles,  however  her  instinctive  belief  in  her  lover's  honor  may  cry 
out  against  the  outrage,  renders  their  lessons  the  more  cruel ;  she 
has  no  wit  with  which  to  confound  them,  no  words  to  uphold  her 
in  ever  so  gentle  an  argument ;  she  has  no  choice  but  to  believe 
and  obey — a  mere  puppet  in  their  hands.  At  first,  allowed  the 
full  bent  of  her  inclination  in  giving  audience  "most  free  and 
bounteous  "  unto  the  lord  Hamlet ;  then  forbidden  to  see  or  speak 
with  him ;  and  still  again,  given  up  to  him,  as  it  were,  as  an  un- 
feeling test  of  his  alleged  madness  for  her  love  :  when  we  consider 


34  OPHELIA. 

the  alternations  of  hope,  fear,  and  final  despair  which  mnst  have 
attended  each  experiment,  we  cannot  be  surprised  that  they  result 
in  a  total  overthrow  of  her  "  most  ingenious  sense,"  "  dividing  her 
from  her  fair  judgment." 

The  interviews  between  Ophelia  and  Laertes,  or  Polonius,  are 
inexpressibly  touching : 


Laer.     For  Hamlet,  and  the  trifling  of  his  favor, 
Hold  it  a  fashion,  and  a  toy  in  blood — 
A  violet  in  the  youth  of  primy  nature, 
Forward,  not  permanent,  sweet,  not  lasting, 
The  perfume  and  suppliance  of  a  minute  ; 
No  more. 

Oph.  No  more  but  so  ? 

Laer.  Think  it  no  more. 

Pol.  What  is't,  Ophelia,  he  said  to  you  ? 

Oph.  So  please  you,  something  touching  the  lord  Hamlet. 

Pol.  Marry,  well  bethought : 
'Tis  told  me,  he  hath  very  oft  of  late 
Given  private  time  to  you ;  and  you  yourself 
Have  of  your  audience  been  most  free  and  bounteous. 

"What  is  between  you  ?     Give  me  up  the  truth. 

Oph.  He  hath,  my  lord,  of  late,  made  many  tenders 
Of  his  affection  to  me. 

Pol.  Affection  ?  puh  !  you  speak  like  a  green  girl, 
Unsifted  in  such  perilous  circumstance. 
Do  you  believe  his  tenders,  as  you  call  them  ? 

Oph.  I  do  not  know,  my  lord,  what  I  should  think. 

Pol.  Marry,  I'll  teach  you :  think  yourself  a  baby, 
That  you  have  ta'en  these  tenders  for  true  pay 
"Which  are  not  sterling. 

Oph.  My  lord,  he  hath  importun'd  me  with  love, 
In  honorable  fashion. 

Pol.  Ay,  fashion  you  may  call  it ;  go  to,  go  to  ! 

Oph.  And  hath  given  countenance  to  his  speech,  my  lord, 
"With  almost  all  the  holy  vows  of  heaven. 


OPHELIA.  35 

Pol.  Ay !  springes,  to  catch,  woodcocks. 
From  this  time, 
Be  somewhat  scanter  of  your  maiden  presence  ; 
Set  your  entreatments  at  a  higher  rate 
Than  a  command  to  parley.    For  lord  Hamlet, 
Believe  so  much  in  him — that  he  is  young ; 
And  with  a  larger  tether  may  he  walk 
Than  may  he  given  you ;  In  few,  Ophelia, 
Do  not  believe  his  vows.         *        *        * 
*        *        *        *        This  is  for  all  :— 
I  would  not,  in  plain  terms,  from  this  time  forth, 
Have  you  so  slander  any  moment's  leisure, 
.    As  to  give  words  or  talk  with  the  lord  Hamlet. 
Look  to  't,  I  charge  you ;  come  your  ways. 
Oph.  I  shall  obey,  my  lord. 

But  if  these  exhibitions  of  Ophelia's  pitiable  helplessness  are 
sad,  what  shall  be  thought  of  her  permitted  interview  with  her 
lover,  to  whom,  in  two  short,  simple  sentences,  she  tells  the  story 
of  all  she  has  suffered,  and  must  die  for  ? — and  what  shall  be  said 
of  Hamlet,  thus  to  flay  alive  the  innocent  soul  which  had  given 
itself  so  unreservedly  into  his  keeping  ?  But  we  are  magnifying 
our  office  ;  not  ours,  thank  heaven,  the  task  to  justify  that  myth  of 
myths: 

Ham.      ******* 
*****        Soft  you,  now  ! 
The  fair  Ophelia : — Nymph,  in  thy  orisons 
Be  all  my  sins  remember'd. 

Oph.  Good  my  lord, 

How  does  your  honor  for  this  many  a  day  ? 
Ham.  I  humbly  thank  you — well. 
Oph.  My  lord,  I  have  remembrances  of  yours 
That  I  have  longed  long  to  re-deliver ;  * 

I  pray  you,  now  receive  them. 

Ham.  No,  not  I ; 

I  never  gave  you  aught. 

Oph.  My  honor'd  lord,  you  know  right  well  you  did ; 
And,  with  them,  words  of  so  sweet  breath  compos'd 


36  OPHELIA. 

As  made  the  things  more  rich.    Their  perfume  lost, 
Take  these  again ;  for  to  the  noble  mind 
Rich  gifts  wax  poor  when  givers  prove  unkind. 
There,  my  lord ! 

I  did  love  you  once. 

Oph.  Indeed,  my  lord,  you  made  me  believe  so. 

Sam.  You  should  not  have  believed  me ;  for  virtue 
cannot  so  inoculate  our  old  stock  but  we  shall  relish  of 
it.     I  lov'd  you  not. 

Oph.  I  was  the  more  deceived. 

Ham.  If  thou  dost  marry,  I'll  give  thee  this  plague 
for  thy  dowry :  Be  thou  as  chaste  as  ice,  as  pure  as  snow, 
thou  shalt  not  escape  calumny.  Get  thee  to  a  nunnery ; 
farewell !  Or,  if  thou  wilt  needs  marry,  marry  a  fool ; 
for  wise  men  know  well  enough  what  monsters  you 
make  of  them.  To  a  nunnery,  go !  and  quickly  too. 
Farewell ! 

Oph.  Heavenly  powers,  restore  him ! 

Ham^  I  have  heard  of  your  paintings,  too,  well 
enough ;  God  hath  given  you  one  face,  and  you  make 
yourselves  another ;  you  jig,  you  amble,  and  you  lisp, 
and  nickname  God's  creatures,  and  make  your  wanton- 
ness your  ignorance :  Go  to,  I'll  no  more  of 't ;  it  hath 
made  me  mad.  I  say,  we  will  have  no  more  marriages : 
those  that  are  married  already,  all  but  one,  shall  live ; 
the  rest  shall  keep  as  they  are.     To  a  nunnery,  go  ! 

Oph.  O,  what  a  noble  mind  is  here  o'erthrown ! 
The  courtier's,  soldier's,  scholar's  eye,  tongue,  sword, 
The  expectancy  and  rose  of  the  fair  state, 
The  glass  of  fashion  and  the  mould  of  form, 
The  observed  of  all  observers — quite,  quite  down  ! 
And  I,  of  ladies  most  deject  and  wretched, 
That  suck'd  the  honey  of  his  music  vows, 
Now  see  that  noble  and  most  sovereign  reason, 
Like  sweet  bells  jangled,  out  of  tune  and  harsh — 
That  unmatch'd  form  and  feature  of  blown  youth, 
Blasted  with  ecstasy.     O,  woe  is  me  ! 
To  have  seen  what  I  have  seen,  see  what  I  see ! 


Uri 


i<    I)  Appleton  &  G?  4*3  $a  >145,  Broadway. 


IMOGEN. 

The  princess  Imogen,  daughter  of  Cymbeline,  King  of  Britain, 
had  secretly  married  Posthumus,  an  orphan,  who  had  been  in  a 
manner  adopted  by  the  king,  and  educated  as  his  own  son. 
Cymbeline,  by  his  first  queen,  had  three  children — Imogen,  and  two 
sons,  who  were  stolen  in  infancy  by  a  revengeful  courtier :  his 
second  queen  had  one  son  by  a  former  marriage,  named  Cloten, 
for  whom  she  employed  every  means  to  secure  the  hand  of  Imo- 
gen, sole  heiress  to  the  British  throne.  The  discovery  of  Imogen's 
secret  marriage  frustrated  these  ambitious  plans,  and  so  incensed 
the  king,  her  father,  that  he  banished  Posthumus  from  the  king- 
dom. Posthumus  left  with  his  bride,  for  their  mutual  service,  his 
faithful  gentleman  Pisanio ;  and  so  they  parted,  after  having  ex- 
changed love-pledges — Imogen  giving  her  husband  a  rare  diamond 
ring,  and  he  bestowing  in  return  a  curious  bracelet. 

Arrived  in  Rome,  Posthumus  fell  in  company  with  a  party  of 
gay  young  fellows,  who  were  descanting  on  the  charms  and  supe- 
rior excellencies  of  their  respective  mistresses ;  and  he,  joining  the 
good-humored  wranglers,  boasted  his  blessed  possession  of  the 
faultless  Imogen.     Whereupon  Iachimo,  a  Roman,  laid  a  wager — 


38  IMOGEN. 

the  half  of  his  estates  against  the  diamond  ring  which  Posthumus 
wore — that  he  would  repair  to  Britain  and  bring  back  abundant 
proof  that  he  had  won  Imogen's  love,  and  accomplished  her  dis- 
honor. The  wager  was  accepted;  and  Iachimo  arrived  at  the 
British  court  with  a  letter  from  Posthumus  to  his  wife,  recom- 
mending his  honored  friend  to  her  courteous  attention. 

Iachimo,  after  insinuating  doubts  of  her  husband's  fidelity  into 
the  chaste  mind  of  the  princess,  told  her  of  his  shameless  relations 
with  some  Roman  woman,  and  ended  by  inciting  her  to  revenge 
herself  upon  her  recreant  lord  by  accepting  his  own  infamous  propo- 
sals.  Imogen's  indignation  at  this  gratuitous  insult  to  her  virtue, 
left  Iachimo  no  chance  of  success ;  but  he  quickly  obtained  her 
forgiveness  by  confessing  it  a  ruse  to  test  her  chastity.  Before  he 
took  his  leave  he  received  permission  from  Imogen  to  allow  a  chest 
of  valuables,  in  which  he  said  her  husband  was  interested,  to  be 
conveyed  to  her  bed-chamber  for  safe-keeping.  In  this  trunk  he 
concealed  himself ;  and  when  the  princess  was  asleep,  he  emerged 
from  his  hiding-place,  took  careful  note  of  the  furnishings  of  the 
apartment,  as  well  as  of  a  secret  mark  on  her  person,  and  possessed 
himself  of  the  precious  bracelet,  that  he  might  take  back  to  Rome 
plausible  proofs  of  his  having  succeeded  in  his  extraordinary  ad- 
venture. 

Provided  with  these,  he  had  little  difficulty  in  deceiving  Pos- 
thumus, who,  distracted  with  grief,  sent  orders  to  Pisanio  to  kill 
Imogen.  At  the  same  time,  Posthumus  despatched  a  letter  to  his 
wife,  instructing  her  to  meet  him  at  a  Welch  town.  Pisanio,  con- 
vinced of  his  mistress's  innocence,  revealed  to  her  her  husband's  sus- 
picions, and  assured  her  that,  so  far  from  obeying  his  master's  cruel 
orders,  he  had  accompanied  her  thus  far  only  to  set  her  on  the 
way  to  Posthumus,  whom  she  must  disabuse  of  his  false  impres- 
sions ;  for  her  better  protection,  he  disguised  her  as  a  page,  and, 


IMOGEN.  39 

in  case  she  should  be  ill,  gave  her  a  powerful  drug,  which  the 
queen  had  bestowed  upon  him  as  a  valuable  restorative. 

Exhausted  with  fatigue  and  hunger,  Imogen  entered  a  cave,  in 
the  forest  through  which  she  was  journeying,  which  was  inhabited 
by  an  old  man  and  his  two  sons,  who  led  the  lives  of  hunters.  They 
made  her  welcome  to  their  rude  comforts;  but  she  fell  ill,  and 
bethinking  her  of  Pisanio's  drug,  swallowed  a  portion  of  it,  and 
was  thrown  into  a  trance,  which  so  resembled  death  that  the 
youths  laid  her  in  the  forest,  making  her  a  grave  of  leaves  and 
flowers. 

Awaking  from  this  deep  slumber,  she  was  found  by  Lucius, 
the  Roman  general,  who  took  her  into  his  service  as  a  page ;  and 
thus  she  travelled  with  the  grand  Roman  army,  which  had  then 
invaded  England,  and  was  marching  towards  the  capital.  Posthu- 
mus  also  was  following  this  army,  to  join  the  British  host  so  soon 
as  it  should  reach  its  destination. 

In  an  engagement  between  the  opposing  forces,  Posthumus, 
and  the  two  hunter-lads  who  had  entertained  Imogen,  by  their 
desperate  valor  saved  King  Cymbeline  from  defeat  and  death. 
Lucius,  together  with  his  page  Fidele,  and  Iachimo,  were  taken 
prisoners  and  brought  before  the  king — Posthumus  being  sum- 
moned likewise,  to  receive  sentence  of  death  for  having,  unbidden, 
returned  from  banishment.  "Whereupon  all  mystery  was  cleared 
away :  the  two  youths  proved  to  be  Cymbeline's  lost  sons,  who 
had  been  brought  up  by  Belarius ;  Imogen  discovered  herself, 
to  the  great  joy  of  her  father ;  Iachimo  confessed  his  treachery ; 
and  Posthumus,  freely  pardoned  by  his  king  and  wife,  was  re- 
stored to  her  faithful  love. 


40  IMOGEN. 

To  Imogen  has  been  awarded,  almost  without  a  dissenting 
voice,  the  high  distinction  of  being  the  most  admirable  of  her  im- 
mortal company — a  woman  in  whom  all  perfections  meet  in  rare 
harmony — who  never  cloys,  never  disappoints. 

Of  all  Shakspeare's  wives — and  he  delighted  in  shaping  models 
of  conjugal  fidelity — she  is  the  master-piece  ;  chaste,  ardent,  brave, 
devoted,  and  beautiful,  she  is  indeed  "  best  of  wives,  most  delight- 
ful of  women."  The  secret  charm  of  Imogen's  character  is  that 
she  comes  within  the  range  of  popular  sympathy  more  successfully 
than  her  equally  excellent  married  sisters :  we  never  recognize 
Juliet  as  a  wife — in  fact,  she  never  assumes  that  position ;  at  the 
best,  we  offer  but  cold  tribute  of  admiration  to  the  classic  virtues 
of  Hermione  and  the  Roman  Portia ;  Desdemona  we  pity,  tender- 
ly, though  with  a  degree  of  half-conscious  contempt.  But  our 
sweet  princess  of  Britain  commands  our  exalted  respect,  while  she 
elicits  a  sympathy  which  can  never  degenerate  into  commiseration. 

With  all  her  softness,  her  "fear  and  niceness" — a  "lady  so 
tender  of  rebukes  that  words  are  strokes,  and  strokes  death  to 
her" — she  is  not,  like  Desdemona,  passive  under  injustice,  even  to 
painful  self-humiliation ;  or,  like  Hermione,  statuesquely  heroic. 
Her  dignity  is  never  more  proudly  asserted  than  in  her  very  subjec- 
tion to  her  husband's  will,  even  when  he  is  no  longer  entitled  to 
her  duty. 

An  excellent  exemplification  of  this  trait  of  her  character  is 
afforded  by  the  scene  in  which  Pisanio  detains  her,  when  midway  on 
her  rapturous  journey  to  meet  her  banished  lord,  to  confess  that 
Posthumus  has  ordered  him  to  kill  her,  on  an  accusation  of  infi- 
delity. 

She  receives  the  astounding  intelligence,  at  first,  with  all  the 
indignation  natural  to  a  woman  whose  purity  is  equalled  by  her 
spirit : 


IMOGEN.  41 

False  to  his  bed !     "What  is  it  to  be  false  ? 

To  lie  in  watch  there,  and  to  think  on  him  ? 

To  weep  'twixt  clock  and  clock  ?  if  sleep  charge  nature, 

To  break  it  with  a  fearful  dream  of  him, 

And  cry  myself  awake  ?    That's  false  to  his  bed, 

Is  it? 

Yet  her  despair,  her  shocking  disappointment  in  one  who,  to 
her  fond  eyes,  had  "  sat  'mongst  men  like  a  descended  god,"  even 
a  half  malicious  desire  to  die,  in  order  that  her  husband's  remorse 
may  be  complete  when  he  discovers  his  mistake,  influence  her  to 
pray  for  death  at  Pisanio's  hands  : 

gifYi  a  i*  *i*  f*  •!•  •)•  *k  v  v 

Come,  fellow,  be  thou  honest : 
Do  thou  thy  master's  bidding.    When  thou  see'st  him, 
A  little  witness  my  obedience.    Look ! 
I  draw  the  sword  myself!  take  it ;  and  hit 
The  innocent  mansion  of  my  love,  my  heart ! 
Fear  not ;  'tis  empty  of  all  things,  but  grief. 
Thy  master  is  not  there,  who  was,  indeed, 
The  riches  of  it.    Do  his  bidding ;  strike  ! 

How  similar,  and  yet  how  unlike,  too,  is  the  following  remon- 
strance to  Hermione's  words  to  her  husband  under  almost  the  same 
circumstances : 


And  thou,  Posthumus,  thou  that  didst  set  up 
My  disobedience  'gainst  the  king  my  father, 
And  make  me  put  into  contempt  the  suits 
Of  princely  fellows,  shalt  hereafter  find 
It  is  no  act  of  common  passage,  but 
A  strain  of  rareness  ;  and  I  grieve  myself 
To  think,  when  thou  shalt  be  disedg'd  by  her 
That  now  thou  tir'st  on,  how  thy  memory 
Will  then  be  pang'd  by  me. 
G 


42  IMOGEN. 

With  what  a  pretty  acknowledgment  of  dependence  on  her 
love,  does  she  answer  Pisanio's  plans  for  her  future  disposition : 

"Why,  good  fellow, 
What  shall  I  do  the  while  ?    Where  bide  ?    How  live, 
Or  in  my  life  what  comfort,  when  I  am 
Dead  to  my  husband  ? 

— which  is  paralleled,  in  sentiment  and  construction,  by  her  reply 
to  Iachimo,  in  that  grandly  characteristic  scene  where  he  attempts 
her  dishonor  by  poisoning  her  ear  with  foul  suspicions  of  her 
lord's  loyalty : 

Reveng'd ! 
How  should  I  be  reveng'd  ?    If  this  be  true, 
(As  I  have  such  a  heart  that  both  mine  ears 
Must  not  in  haste  abuse,) — if  it  be  true, 
How  should  I  be  reveng'd  ? 

We  cannot  agree  with  those  who  deny  the  possession  of  jealousy 
to  Imogen ;  nor  can  we  regard  as  a  blemish  in  her  the  possession 
of  just  so  much  as  is  natural  to  a  woman  of  sensitive  imagination 
and  ardent  emotions.  To  be  grandly  superior  to  this  most  femi- 
nine weakness  would  argue,  either  that  she  was  endowed  with  self- 
esteem  so  overweening  as  to  preclude  to  her  mind  the  possibility 
of  a  rival,  or  that  she  was  passionless  to  indifference — either  sup- 
position being  absurd  in  its  application  to  her.  We  detect  a 
pretty  trace  of  this  element  in  the  parting  scene  with  Posthumus: 

Imo.  Nay,  stay  a  little : 
"Were  you  but  riding  forth  to  air  yourself, 
Such  parting  were  too  petty.    Look  here,  love  ! 
This  diamond  was  my  mother's ;  take  it,  heart ! 
But  keep  it  till  you  woo  another  wife, 
When  Imogen  is  dead. 


IMOGEN.  43 

Post.  *How !  how  !  another  ? — 
You  gentle  gods,  give  me  but  this  I  have, 
And  sear  up  my  embracements  from  a  next 
With  bonds  of  death  ! 

— which  is  plainly  but  a  tender  trick  to  catch  his  amorous  pro- 
testations in  reply.  But  she  repeats  it,  and  this  time  with  more 
passionate  meaning : 

I  did  not  take  my  leave  of  him,  but  had 

Most  pretty  things  to  say.    Ere  I  could  tell  him 

How  I  would  think  on  him  at  certain  hours, 

Such  thoughts,  and  such ;  or  I  could  make  him  swear 

The  shes  of  Italy  should  not  betray 

Mine  interest  and  his  honor  ;  or  have  charg'd  him, 

At  the  sixth  hour  of  morn,  at  noon,  at  midnight, 

To  encounter  me  with  orisons — for  then 

I  am  in  heaven  for  him ;  or  ere  I  could 

Give  him  that  parting  kiss  which  I  had  set 

Betwixt  two  charming  words — comes  in  my  father, 

And,  like  the  tyrannous  breathing  of  the  north, 

Shakes  all  our  buds  from  growing. 

This  last  conceit  is  superfinely  delicate ;  indeed,  the  scene  through- 
out shows  Imogen  almost  Juliet-like  in  her  extravagant  fancies  and 
highly  wrought  imaginings. 

And  again,  in  her  vehement  talk  with  Pisanio,  she  at  once 
seizes  upon  the  abhorred  conclusion  to  solve  the  horrible  mystery 
of  her  lord's  injustice : 


********* 
*****        Some  jay  of  Italy, 
Whose  mother  was  her  painting,  hath  betray'd  him. 
Poor  I  am  stale,  a  garment  out  of  fashion  ; 
And,  for  I  am  richer  than  to  hang  by  the  walls, 
I  must  be  ripp'd  : — to  pieces  with  me ! 


44  IMOGEN. 

Pisanio  essays  to  comfort  her : 

It  cannot  be, 
But  that  my  master  is  abus'd : 
Some  villain — ay,  and  singular  in  his  art — 
Hath  done  you  both  this  cursed  injury. 
Irno.  Some  Roman  courtezan. 

She  persistently  rejects  every  other  supposition  for  this  one,  which 
is  of  all  the  least  probable,  except  to  her  self-tortured  heart. 

Imogen,  with  the  single  exception  of  Juliet,  must  be  considered 
the  most  beautiful  of  her  sisterhood ;  throughout  the  text  much 
pains  is  taken  to  scatter  passages  tending  to  the  establishment  of 
this  charming  impression.  We  cannot  see  her  "clothed  on"  with 
that  "  bewildering  plenitude  of  loveliness  "  with  which  a  more  gal- 
lant admirer  endows  her ;  our  idea  of  her  person,  photographically 
fixed,  is  that  of  extreme  but  enchanting  delicacy ;  and  this  is  satis- 
factorily supported  by  a  careful  study  of  the  effect  her  beauty  pro- 
duces on  the  beholder.  Belarius  says  of  her  when,  famished,  she 
has  entered  his  cave  : 

Stay !  come  not  in ! — 
But  that  it  eats  our  victuals,  I  should  think 
Here  were  a  fairy. 

******** 
By  Jupiter,  an  angel !  or  if  not, 
An  earthly  paragon ! — Behold  divineness 
No  elder  than  a  boy ! 

And  of  like  character  are  several  descriptions  in  the  exquisite 
burial  scene : 

Gui.  Oh  sweetest,  fairest  lily  ! 

My  brother  wears  thee  not  one  half  so  well 
As  when  thou  grew'st  thyself. 


IMOGEN.  45 


*****        Why,  he  but  sleeps : 
If  he  be  gone,  he'll  make  his  grave  a  bed ; 
With  female  fairies  will  his  tomb  be  haunted, 
And  worms  will  not  come  to  thee. 

Arv.  With  fairest  flowers — 

Whilst  summer  lasts,  and  I  live  here,  Fidele — 
I'll  sweeten  thy  sad  grave  :  Thou  shalt  not  lack 
The  flower  that's  like  thy  face,  pale  primrose ;  nor 
The  azur'd  hare-bell,  like  thy  veins ;  no,  nor 
The  leaf  of  eglantine,  whom  not  to  slander, 
Out-sweeten'd  not  thy  breath  ;  the  ruddock  would, 
With  charitable  bill,  (O  bill,  sore-shaming 
Those  rich-left  heirs  that  let  their  fathers  lie 
Without  a  monument !)  bring  thee  all  this  ; 
Yea,  and  furr'd  moss  besides,  when  flowers  are  none, 
To  winter-ground  thy  corse. 

And  in  Iacliimo's  description  it  is  noticeable  that,  although  its 
luxurious  imagery  is  even  oppressive,  there  is  none  of  the  gross- 
ness  which  might  be  expected  from  so  unscrupulous  a  libertine ; 
it  would  seem  that  the  chaste,  almost  supernatural,  loveliness  of 
the  sleeping  lady  had  refined  him  for  the  time  : 

********** 

******         Cytherea, 
How  bravely  thou  becom'st  thy  bed !  fresh  lily — 
And  whiter  than  the  sheets  !     That  I  might  touch ! 
But  kiss  !  one  kiss ! — Rubies  unparagon'd, 
How  dearly  they  do  't — 'Tis  her  breathing  that 
Perfumes  the  chamber  thus.    The  flame  o'  the  taper 
Bows  toward  her,  and  would  underpeep  her  lids, 
To  see  the  enclosed  lights,  now  canopied 
Under  these  windows :  White  and  azure,  lac'd 
With  blue  of  heaven's  own  tinct ! 
********* 

*****        On  her  left  breast 
A  mole  cinque-spotted,  like  the  crimson  drops 


46  IMOGEN. 

I'  the  bottom  of  a  cowslip.    Here's  a  voucher, 
Stronger  than  ever  law  could  make  ! 

As  to  the  ways  of  Imogen,  there  is  a  pretty  suggestiveness  in 
the  circumstance  of  her  reading  late  in  bed,  and  in  the  matter  of 
her  reading : 

Imo.  What  hour  is  it  ? 

Lady.  About  midnight,  madam. 

Imo.  I  hav«  read  three  hours  then ;  mine  eyes  are  weak ; 
Fold  down  the  leaf  where  I  have  left.    To  bed ! 


* 

* 

* 

* 

* 

* 

* 

* 

* 

* 

* 

* 

* 

* 

* 

* 

* 

* 

lack.       *        *        *        She  hath  been  reading  late, 
The  tale  of  Tereus ;  here,  the  leaf's  turned  down 
Where  Philomel  gave  up. 


M I  RAN  DA. 

Once  upon  a  time,  the  fair  kingdom  of  Milan  was  governed  by 
Duke  Prospero,  an  honorable  prince,  beloved  by  his  subjects,  but 
given  much  more  to  the  pursuit  of  art  and  science,  and  the  "  bet- 
tering of  his  mind,"  than  to  the  management  of  the  state.  All  his 
worldly  affairs,  the  cares  and  ceremonies  devolving  upon  his  posi- 
tion, he  confided  to  Antonio,  his  younger  brother,  who,  being  an 
ambitious,  unscrupulous  man,  so  turned  the  flattering  trust  to  his 
own  advantage,  that,  with  the  assistance  of  the  king  of  Naples,  he 
usurped  the  throne 

Antonio  feared  the  people's  displeasure  if  he  should  put  his 
brother  to  death  ;  so  he  sent  Prospero  out  to  sea,  with  Miranda, 
his  only  child,  as  yet  an  infant — giving  orders  to  Gonzalo,  one  of 
his  lords,  to  set  them  adrift  in  a  wretched  boat  with  no  provision, 
and  leave  them  thus  to  perish. 

Gonzalo,  however,  took  pity  on  the  good  duke  and  his  pretty 
babe :  he  was  forced  to  obey,  in  part,  his  new  master's  orders ;  but 
he  filled  the  boat  with  food,  clothing-stufls,  and  a  few  volumes 
from  the  royal  library,  of  which  Prospero  had  been  only  too  fond. 

By  and  by  the  boat,  tossed  hither  and  thither  by  the  waves, 
was  cast  upon  an  enchanted  island,  uninhabited  save  by  spirits. 


48  MIRANDA. 

Here  Prospero  fitted  up  a  cave  to  be  his  dwelling-place,  and  here 
he  tenderly  nurtured  his  child,  and  studied  his  "books  of  magic,  of 
which  pet  science  of  that  day,  he  was  a  master.  By  virtue  of  this 
knowledge  he  released  many  beautiful  spirits,  confined  in  the 
bodies  of  trees  by  a  cruel  witch  who  had  held  dominion  over  the 
island ;  and  they,  in  gratitude,  were  his  faithful  servants  ever 
after. 

Thus  lived  the  duke  and  his  daughter,  seeing  no  other  human 
being,  pursuing  together  their  studies  and  innocent  amusements, 
till  Miranda  had  become  a  beautiful  young  maiden.  About  this 
time  it  happened  that  the  king  of  Naples,  with  his  son,  Prince  Fer- 
dinand, and  Antonio,  duke  of  Milan,  accompanied  by  Gonzalo, 
Prospero's  kind  friend,  and  many  attendant  courtiers,  took  voy- 
age together  in  a  stately  ship  ;  and  as  she  approached  the  island, 
Prospero,  informed  by  his  art  of  her  passengers,  commanded  his 
attendant  elves  to  raise  a  great  storm  about  the  vessel,  which  cast 
the  travellers,  shipwrecked,  on  his  shores. 

Ariel,  chief  of  the  aerial  sprites,  instructed  by  his  master,  led 
Prince  Ferdinand  at  once,  by  his  supernatural  song,  into  the  pres- 
ence of  the  duke  and  his  daughter ;  for  Prospero  had  conceived 
the  fine  plan  of  revenging  himself  on  the  treacherous  king  of  "Na- 
ples, by  causing  his  son  to  fall  in  love  with  Miranda,  and  make 
her  his  wife  and  future  queen.  His  project  succeeded :  the  young 
prince  became  enamored  at  first  sight  of  the  enchanting  maiden, 
and  invited  her  to  be  the  partner  of  his  throne.  The  rest  of  the 
shipwrecked  party  were  not  permitted  to  interrupt  their  love- 
making  till  their  preferences  were  firmly  established ;  then  Ariel 
was  commanded  to  conduct  the  king  of  Naples  and  Antonio,  with 
their  servants,  to  the  shelter  and  refreshment  of  Prospero's  cave, 
where  every  thing  was  quickly  explained :  Antonio  implored  the 
forgiveness  of  his  brother  Prospero ;   the  Neapolitan  king  sane- 


MIRANDA.  49 

tioned  the  union  of  his  son  "with  Miranda ;  and  finally,  the  delicate 
Ariel  accomplished  his  last  task — that  of  accompanying  the  ship 
with  gentle  gales,  which  should  waft  her  noble  passengers  to  home 
and  happiness. 


Miranda,  the  Admirable,  as  her  name  denotes,  is  a  purely  ideal 
creation  of  the  poet's  mind — Titania  herself  not  more  imbued  with 
the  essence  of  fairy-land. 

So  spiritual,  so  ethereal  is  her  organization,  that  it  baffles  all 
merely  practical  attempts  to  analyze  or  classify  it ;  to  her  most 
material  beholder  she  is  scarce  more  than  an  exquisite,  magical 
illusion,  which,  if  too  boldly  approached,  a  wave  of  some  mystic 
wand  will  instantly  dispel. 

In  body,  mind,  and  spirit,  Miranda  is  essentially  virgin ;  her 
grace,  her  beauty,  her  self,  are  as  guiltless  of  any  meretricious  sug- 
gestion as  in  the  hour  when  she  was  bom :  "  society "  is  a  sealed 
book  to  her  innocent  eyes — the  world,  a  myth.  Her  quick  sus- 
ceptibility to  a  love  as  pure  as  it  is  passionate  seems  the  one  only 
quality  she  possesses  in  common  with  her  sisters  ;  she  is  the  child 
of  Nature  and  super-Nature — belonging  to  humanity,  but  a  hu- 
manity so  free  from  base  alloy  that  it  is  but  a  step  removed  from 
the  pure  spiritual. 

The  fact  that  she  is  a  duke's  daughter,  and  the  affianced  bride 
of  a  prince,  does  nothing  toward  humanizing  Miranda :  the  duke 
is  the  legitimate  magician-duke  of  fairy  romance  ;  the  prince,  the 
invariable  Prince  Charming,  whose  intrepid  devotion  is  rewarded 
by  the  hand  of  the  enchanted  beauty. 

Surrounded  by  all  the  witchery  of  a  spell-bound  home,  minis- 
tered to  by  invisible  spirits  who  rejoice  to  acknowledge  her  their 
mistress,  charmed  by  strains  of  supernatural  melody,  isolated  from 


50  MIRANDA. 

association  or  sympathy  with  all  human  beings  save  her  father, 
who  is,  himself,  less  a  man  than  a  weird,  powerful  necromancer, 
Miranda  exists  apart,  in  our  imagination — something  less  than  god- 
dess, yet  more  than  woman. 

There  is  no  attempt  to  depict  a  beauty  so  ethereal  that  in  the 
very  process  of  description  it  would  become  materialized,  and  thus 
lose  half  its  charm.  But  its  effect  upon  all  beholders  is  carefully  re- 
produced ;  and  that  alone  sets  one's  fancy  dreaming  of  all  most 
beautiful  "  things  of  beauty,"  in  heaven  or  on  earth,  to  make  up 
this  ideal  "joy  forever."  We  perfectly  sympathize  with  Ferdi- 
nand's  salutation  on  first  meeting  her ;  that  which,  addressed  to 
any  other  woman,  would  have  passed  but  as  an  amorous  hyperbole, 
or  a  courtly  phrase  of  the  time,  becomes,  in  its  application  to  her, 
the  expression  of  a  bewitched  conviction : 

Most  sure,  the  goddess 
On  whom  these  airs  attend !         *        *        *        * 
*****         My  prime  request, 
"Which  I  do  last  pronounce,  is,  O  you  wonder ! 
If  you  be  maid  or  no  ? 

Mir.  No  wonder,  sir ; 

But  certainly  a  maid. 

And  this  is  not  simply  the  illusion  of  young  and  ardent  eyes. 
Alonzo,  king  of  Naples,  exclaims  on  first  seeing  her  at  chess  with 
his  son : 

What  is  this  maid,  with  whom  thou  wast  at  play  ? 
Is  she  the  goddess  that  hath  severed  us, 
And  brought  us  thus  together  ? 

The  dainty  delicacy  of  the  love-making  scene,  between  Miranda 
and  her  lover,  cannot  be  surpassed ;  under  her  chaste  influence, 
Ferdinand,  the  young  gallant  of  a  gay  court,  confessing  himself  to 


MIRANDA.  51 

have  kept  no  fast  at  Pleasure's  board,  becomes,  for  the  time  at  least, 
almost  as  pure  in  heart  as  she,  and  their  love,  resolved  into  a  beau- 
tiful instinct,  loses  every  gross  attribute  of  passion. 

Ferdinand,  by  command  of  Prospero,  is  bearing  logs — he 
14  must  remove  some  thousands  of  these  logs,  and  pile  them  up, 
upon  a  sore  injunction :" 


Mir.  You  look  wearily. 

Fer.  No,  noble  mistress ;  'tis  fresh  morning  with  me, 
When  you  are  by,  at  night.     I  do  beseech  you, 
(Chiefly  that  I  might  set  it  in  my  prayers,) 
What  is  your  name  ? 

Mir.  Miranda : — O  my  father 
I  have  broke  your  'best  to  say  so  ! 

Fer.  Admired  Miranda ! 

Indeed,  the  top  of  admiration — worth 
What's  dearest  to  the  world  !     Full  many  a  lady 
I  have  eyed  with  best  regard,  and  many  a  time 
The  harmony  of  their  tongues  hath  into  bondage 
Brought  my  too  diligent  ear ;  for  several  virtues 
Have  I  liked  several  women — never  any 
With  so  full  soul  but  some  defect  in  her 
Did  quarrel  with  the  noblest  grace  she  owed, 
And  put  it  to  the  foil.    But  you,  O  you, 
So  perfect  and  so  peerless,  are  created 
Of  every  creature's  best ! 

Mir.  I  do  not  know 

One  of  my  sex !  no  woman's  face  remember, 
Save  from  my  glass  mine  own ;  nor  have  I  seen 
More  that  I  may  call  men,  than  you,  good  friend, 
And  my  dear  father ;  how  features  are  abroad 
I  am  skill-less  of.    But,  by  ray  modesty, 
(The  jewel  in  my  dower,)  I  would  not  wish 
Any  companion  in  the  world  but  you ! 
Nor  can  imagination  form  a  shape, 
Beside  yourself,  to  like  of. — But  I  prattle 
Something  too  wildly,  and  my  father's  precepts 
Therein  forget. 


52  MIRANDA. 

Fer.  I  am,  in  my  condition, 
A  prince,  Miranda — I  do  think,  a  king 
(I  would  not  so  !) ;  and  would,  no  more  endure 
This  wooden  slavery  than  I  would  suffer 
The  flesh-fly  blow  my  mouth. — Hear  my  soul  speak  : 
The  very  instant  that  I  saw  you,  did 
My  heart  fly  to  your  service ;  there  resides, 
To  make  me  slave  to  it ;  and  for  your  sake 
Am  I  this  patient  log-man. 

Mir.  Do  you  love  me  ? 

Fer.  O  heaven,  O  earth  !  hear  witness  to  this  sound, 
And  crown  what  I  profess  with  kind,  event 
If  I  speak  true ;  if  hollowly,  invert 
What  best  is  boded  me  to  mischief!    I, 
Beyond  all  limit  of  what  else  i'  the  world, 
Do  love,  prize,  honor  you ! 

Mir.  I  am  a  fool, 

To  weep  at  what  I  am  glad  of. 

Fer.  Wherefore  weep  you  ? 

Mir.  At  mine  unworthiness,  that  dare  not  offer 
What  I  desire  to  give  ;  and  much  less  take 
What  I  shall  die  to  want. — But  this  is  trifling  , 
And  all  the  more  it  seeks  to  hide  itself, 
The  bigger  bulk  it  shows.     Hence,  bashful  Cunning  ! 
And  prompt  me,  plain  and  holy  Innocence  ! 
I  am  your  wife,  if  you  will  marry  me ; 
If  not,  I'll  die  your  maid :  to  be  your  fellow 
You  may  deny  me  ;  but  I'll  be  your  servant 
Whether  you  will  or  no. 

Fer.  My  mistress,  dearest, 

And  I  thus  humble  ever. 

Mir.  *  My  husband  then  ? 

Fer.  Ay,  with  a  heart  as  willing 
As  bondage  e'er  of  freedom  :  here's  my  hand ! 

Mir.  And  mine,  with  my  heart  in 't.    And  now,  farewell 
Till  half  an  hour  hence. 

Fer.  A  thousand !  thousand ! 


■r^ 


\ 


v 


vz#?ia£ 


DESDEMONA. 

Desdemona  was  tlie  daughter  and  heiress  of  Brabantio,  a  Vene- 
tian senator.  Othello,  a  famous  Moorish  general,  being  a  friend 
of  Brabantio,  made  frequent  visits  to  his  house  ;  and  with  no  more 
studious  wooing  than  the  relation  of  his  adventures  and  "  hair- 
breadth 'scapes  "  in  strange  lands,  did  he  win  the  love  of  the  sena- 
tor's beautiful  daughter. 

Desdemona,  fearing  the  opposition  of  her  father,  who  naturally 
wished  to  marry  his  child  to  some  one  of  the  many  young  nobles 
of  Venice  who  were  suitors  for  her  hand,  fled  from  her  home  by 
night,  and  became  the  Moor's  wife. 

On  that  same  night,  Othello  was  ordered  by  the  reigning  duke 
to  set  out  at  once  to  war  against  the  Turks  in  the  isle  of  Cyprus, 
whither  his  bride  was  permitted  to  follow  him.  On  this  expedi- 
tion Othello  had  selected  Cassio,  a  young  Florentine  nobleman, 
true  friend  to  himself  and  Desdemona,  to  be  his  lieutenant,  a  post 
greatly  desired  by  Iago,  an  old  follower  of  Othello,  who  had  re- 
ceived the  appointment  of  "  ancient "  instead.  Iago  accompanied 
Othello  in  this  capacity,  while  his  wife,  Emilia,  attended  upon  the 
lady  Desdemona  as  waiting-gentlewoman. 

From  the  first,  Iago  had  conceived  the  diabolic  idea  of  prompt- 
ing Othello  to  suspect  his  wife's  intimacy  with  young  Cassio,  as 


54  DESDEMONA. 

well  to  avenge  his  disappointed  ambition,  as  from  a  suspicion  of 
the  Moor's  previous  relations  with  Emilia — but  above  all,  to  gratify 
the  taste  for  treacherous  plotting  which  was  part  of  his  detestable 
temper.  His  stratagems  were  admirably  contrived  for  the  victim 
they  were  intended  to  ensnare,  though  too  transparent  for  a  less 
generous  and  more  suspicious  nature  than  that  of  the  passionate 
Othello.  On  the  first  night  of  the  Moor's  arrival  in  the  island  of 
Cyprus,  Iago  artfully  prevailed  upon  Cassio  to  drink  to  excess — 
whence  a  brawl,  ending  in  Cassio's  disgraceful  suspension  from  his 
military  office.  Nothing  could  be  more  natural,  nor,  as  it  proved, 
more  fatal,  to  the  tender  Desdemona  than  to  exert  her  influence 
with  her  newly-wedded  lord  to  procure  the  pardon  and  reinstate- 
ment of  their  mutual  friend,  "  Michael  Cassio,  that  came  a-wooing 
with  him" — on  which  artless  importunity  the  wily  Iago  ingeniously 
led  Othello  to  put  the  vilest  construction. 

Desdemona  possessed  a  curiously  wrought  handkerchief,  most 
precious  to  her  as  the  first  gift  of  her  husband,  and  which  she 
superstitiously  believed  to  be  endowed  with  magic  virtue.  Iago 
bribed  his  wife  to  steal  this  dainty  trifle  from  her  mistress ;  and, 
having  dropped  it  in  Cassio's  bed-chamber,  he  persuaded  Othello 
that  Desdemona  had  presented  it  to  the  young  lieutenant  as  a 
token  of  her  guilty  preference.  Such  innocent  trifles  did  this  ma- 
lignant spirit  construe  to  his  own  vile  meaning,  till  the  Moor,  mad- 
dened with  jealous  doubts  of  his  wife's  chastity,  smothered  her  in 
her  bed. 

After  the  dreadful  deed  had  been  done,  Othello  received 
abundant  proof  of  Desdemona's  innocence  from  Emilia — whom 
Iago  killed  on  the  spot  for  betraying  him ;  and,  stabbing  himself,  the 
Moor,  so  miserably  deceived,  died  on  the  body  of  his  lovely  victim. 


DESDEMONA.  55 

The  type  of  all  gentle  and  refined  beauty — "  O,  the  world  hath 
not  a  sweeter  creature ! " — Desdemona  by  her  rare  simplicity,  her 
childlike  artlessness  of  character,  wins  her  way  to  the  hearts  of  all 
who  have  conned  the  story  of  her  woes  and  mourned  her  cruel 
fate. 

In  our  own  mind  we  class  her  naturally  with  Miranda  and 
Ophelia ;  but  she  is  less  purely  ideal  than  either  of  these ;  her 
dramatic  condition  differs  from  theirs  in  being  simply  domestic ; 
though  highly  picturesque,  it  is  dependent  for  its  interest  on  no 
more  romantic  accessories  than  are  afforded  by  the  privacy  of  a 
sumptuous  household,  to  the  skilful  management  of  which — not- 
witlistanding  that  she  was  "an  admirable  musician,"  and  of  "high 
and  plenteous  wit  and  invention" — she  does  not  scorn  to  devote 
a  considerable  portion  of  her  time.  With  whatsoever  of  intense 
effects  her  married  life  is  produced,"  herself  is  never  part  of  them — 
she,  indeed,  constitutes  their  principal  figure,  but  she  is  never  in- 
volved in  them,  never  understands  them ;  her  identity  is  preserved 
intact  throughout. 

Subordination,  in  thought  and  word  and  act,  is  the  prominent 
feature  of  Desdemona's  character :  not  simply  the  non-resisting  hu- 
mility of  a  weak,  spiritless  nature,  but  that  honorable  submission 
to  one  having  authority  (whether  God,  king,  father,  or  husband) 
which,  then,  as  in  the  later  day  of  English  Margaret  More,  formed 
an  essential  part  of  the  education  of  the  gently  bred,  only  less  im- 
portant than  religion  itself,  or,  rather,  included  in  that. 

That  Desdemona  is  not  necessarily  tame  because  her  "  spirit, 
so  still  and  quiet,"  has  been  chastened  by  a  graceful  discipline,  is 
proved  by  the  boldness  with  which  she  takes  her  fate  into  her  own 
hands  when  the  occasion  demands  prompt  action. 

Disdainful  of  the  "wealthy,  curled  darlings  of  her  nation,"  she 
hearkens  to  and  loves  the  gallant  Moor,  to  whom  "  the  flinty  and 


56  DESDEMONA. 

steel  coucli  of  war  "  was  "  thrice-driven  bed  of  down ; "  and  with 
-the  courageous  delicacy  of  a  true  woman,  she  discovers  her  love  to 
him  who,  last  of  all,  would  dream  of  winning  it : 

She  thanked  ine ; 
And  bade  me,  if  I  had  a  friend  that  lov'd  her, 
I  should  hut  teach  him  how  to  tell  my  story, 
And  that  would  woo  her  ; 

and  they  elope  and  are  married. 

Again,  no  woman  of  meagre  intellectual  endowments — and  as 
such  Desdemona  is  too  often  regarded — or  without  sufficient  of 
what  we  term  c7iaracter,  could,  with  such  force  and  graceful  logic, 
have  defended  the  step  she  had  taken,  in  the  presence  of  an  august 
senate,  which,  of  itself,  would  have  overwhelmed  the  soft,  timorous 
Desdemona  as  she  exists  in  the  popular  imagination. 

The  reader  will  recollect  that,  on  their  wedding-night,  Othello 
is  brought  before  the  Senate  to  answer  the  charge  of  Brabantio, 
of  having  procured  the  affections  of  his  daughter  by  some  unlaw- 
ful means ;  Desdemona  being  summoned,  her  father  appeals  to 
her: 

Come  hither,  gentle  mistress ; 
Do  you  perceive,  in  all  this  noble  company, 
Where  most  you  owe  obedience  ? 

JDes.  My  noble  father, 

I  do  perceive  here  a  divided  duty : 
To  you  I  am  bound  for  life  and  education ; 
My  life  and  education  both  do  learn  me 
How  to  respect  you ;  you  are  the  lord  of  duty — 
I  am  hitherto  your  daughter :  But  here's  my  husband ; 
And  so  much  duty  as  my  mother  show'd 
To  you,  preferring  you  before  her  father, 
So  much  I  challenge  that  I  may  profess 
Due  to  the  Moor,  my  lord. 


DESDEMONA.  57 

And  how  full  of  eloquence,  of  the  unfaltering  pride  of  an  honor 
able  wife,  is  her  petition  to  the  duke  to  be  allowed  to  follow  her 
husband  to  Cyprus : 

That  I  did  love  the  Moor,  to  live  with  him, 

My  downright  violence  and  scorn  of  fortunes 

May  trumpet  to  the  world  :  my  heart's  subdued 

Even  to  the  very  quality  of  my  lord : 

I  saw  Othello's  visage  in  Ids  mind ; 

And  to  his  honors,  and  his  valiant  parts, 

Did  I  my  soul  and  fortunes  consecrate. 

So  that,  dear  lords,  if  I  be  left  behind, 

A  moth  of  peace,  and  he  go  to  the  war, 

The  rites  for  which  I  love  him  are  bereft  me, 

And  I  a  heavy  interim  shall  support 

By  his  dear  absence  :  Let  me  go  with  him. 

In  Desdemona's  passion  for  Othello  we  have  a  fair  example  ot 
the  proverbial  tenacity  of  an  Italian  woman's  love,  however  sud- 
denly, or  for  whatever  freak  of  fancy,  it  may  have  been  conceived. 
No  wrong,  no  outrage  to  her  tender  devotion,  can  for  a  moment 
alienate  her  loyal  heart ;  while  their  honeymoon  is  yet  high  in 
the  heavens,  Othello  treats  her  with  "  strange  unquietness,"  with 
petulant  impatience ;  but  her  generous  fondness  readily  finds  ex 
cuse  for  him : 

Nay,  we  must  think,  men  are  not  gods ; 
Nor  of  them  look  for  such  observances 
As  fit  the  bridal. — Beshrew  me  much,  Emilia, 
I  was  (unhandsome  warrior  as  I  am,) 
Arraigning  his  unkindness  with  my  soul ; 
But  now  I  find  I  had  suborn'd  the  witness, 
And  he's  indited  falsely. 

He  tries  upon  her  unoffending  head  all  the  fantastic  tricks  of 

his  half-crazed  wits ;  he  even  strikes  her — her  of  such  tender 
8 


58  DESDEMONA. 

beauty,  such  careful  nurture  ;  yet  no  more  bitter  reproach  escapes 
her  injured  heart  than  these  patient  words  to  Iago,  to  whom  she 
has  recourse  in  her  afflicted  strait : 

Those  that  do  teach  young  babes 
Do  it  with  gentle  means,  and  easy  tasks : 
He  might  have  chid  me  so  ;  for,  in  good  faith, 
I  am  a  child  to  chiding  ; 

— concluding  the  interview  with  an  appeal  so  touching  as  to  move 
any  but  a  fiend,  or  an  Iago  * 

O  good  Iago, 
What  shfell  I  do  to  win  my  lord  again  ? 
Good  friend,  go  to  him ;  for,  by  this  light  of  heaven, 
I  know  not  how  I  lost  him.    Here  I  kneel : — 
If  e'er  my  will  did  trespass  'gainst  his  love, 
Either  in  discourse,  or  thought,  or  actual  deed, 
Or  that  mine  eyes,  mine  ears,  or  any  sense, 
Delighted  them  in  any  other  form  ; 
Or  that  I  do  not  yet,  and  ever  did, 
And  ever  will, — though  he  do  shake  me  off 
To  beggarly  divorcement, — love  him  dearly, 
Comfort  forswear  me  !     Unkindness  may  do  much  ; 
And  his  unkindness  may  defeat  my  life, 
But  never  taint  my  love. 

There  is  nothing  in  all  Shakspeare,  to  our  mind,  more  affecting 
than  the  final  night-scenes  in  this  moving  tragedy :  the  half-pres- 
cient sadness  of  the  victim ;  her  request,  full  of  poetic  pathos,  to 
Emilia,  to  lay  on  her  bed  her  wedding  sheets,  and,  if  she  should 
die,  to  shroud  her  in  one  of  them ;  the  chanting  of  an  old  song 
which  she  had  heard,  long  back  in  her  childhood,  sung  by  her 
mother's  maid,  who  died  of  love — are  all,  from  their  sweet  tinge 
of  superstition,  most  touchingly  effective.     In  her  conversation 


DESDEMONA.  59 

with  Emilia,  while  disrobing  for  bed — that  bed  which  is  so  soon 
to  be  her  bier — the  extreme  delicacy  of  Desdemona's  mind,  the 
spotless  chastity,  which  cannot  be  persuaded  of  the  existence  of  a 
grossness  so  foreign  to  itself,  is  strikingly  contrasted  with  the 
loose  opinions,  the  coarse  good  sense,  and  the  easy  virtue  of  Iago's 
wife ;  it  is  the  crowning  beauty  of  her  blameless  life. 


/ 


\Y      \1 


■ 


/ 


'/s-?Z. 


ROSALIND. 

Rosalind  was  the  only  child  of  the  reigning  Duke  of  a  French 
province;  while  she  was  yet  almost  an  infant,  Frederick,  a 
younger  brother  of  her  father,  usurped  his  throne,  and  drove  him 
and  his  followers  into  exile.  Duke  Frederick  had  also  a  young 
daughter,  Celia ;  and  that  she  might  not  pine  in  her  new  home,  he 
detained  his  niece,  Rosalind,  to  be  her  playmate.  In  Celia's  own 
beautiful  words :  they 

*    *    *    *    "  Slept  together, 
Rose  at  an  instant,  learn'd,  play'd,  eat  together ; 
And  wheresoe'er  they  went,  like  Juno's  swans, 
Still  they  went  coupled  and  inseparable." 

Thus  were  they  reared  in  the  ducal  palace  as  sisters ;  till  one 
day,  grown  to  be  lovely  maidens,  they  witnessed  in  company  the 
then  favorite  pastime  at  court,  of  wrestling,  and  Rosalind  fell  in  love 
with  one  of  the  competitors, — a  tall,  elegant  young  stripling,  who 
came  off  victor  from  the  contest.  But  unhappily  for  the  princess 
Rosalind,  the  handsome  stranger  proved  to  be  Orlando,  son  of 
Sir  Rowland  de  Bois,  who  had  been  in  his  lifetime  a  fast  adherent 
to  the  deposed  Duke;  and  this  so  aroused  the  anger  of  Duke 
Frederick,  that  he  not  only  dismissed  the  young  man,  but  ordered 
Rosalind,  who  had  displeased  him  by  her  fearless  expressions  of 


62  ROSALIND. 

sympathy  with  the  son  of  her  father's  best  friend,  to  quit  the  palace 
at  once,  and  seek  the  exiled  Duke's  retreat — the  forest  of  Arden. 

Celia's  prayers  to  her  father  in  "behalf  of  her  cousin  were  in 
vain ;  so,  true  to  her  sisterly  affection  for  Rosalind,  she  determined 
to  share  her  banishment.  The  better  to  conceal  their  flight,  they 
set  out  on  their  journey  disguised  as  peasants ;  and  to  insure  them- 
selves against  annoyance,  Eosalind,  who  was  the  taller  and  more 
courageous  of  the  two,  assumed  the  attire  of  a  country  lad,  calling 
herself  Ganymede;  while  Celia,  the  pretty  shepherdess,  took  the 
name  of  AUena,  sister  to  Ganymede. 

"With  but  few  adventures  they  came  to  the  forest  of  Arden, 
wherein  Orlando  had  also  taken  refuge  from  a  cruel,  jealous  bro- 
ther, who  sought  his  life.  Orlando,  ardent  and  romantic,  had  by 
no  means  received  unmoved  the  delicate  sympathy  of  the  fair  Ro- 
salind ;  on  the  contrary,  he  had  cherished  the  memory  of  it  so 
tenderly,  that  before  long  his  love  for  her  became  as  absorbing  as 
it  was  hopeless.  To  the  great  marvel  of  our  princesses,  as  they 
continued  their  journey  through  the  forest,  they  found  the  bushes 
hung  with  amorous  sonnets  in  praise  of  Rosalind's  beauty,  and  the 
young  trees  eloquent  with  her  name,  cut  in  their  tender  bark ;  but 
after  a  while  the  mystery  was  joyfully  explained,  to  one  at  least, 
by  the  appearance  of  Orlando. 

With  the  coquetry  of  a  true  woman,  certain  that  she  was  be- 
loved, Rosalind,  still  disguised,  amused  herself  by  teasing  her  lover 
into  a  frenzy  of  passion,  "  piquing  and  soothing  him  by  turns." 

The  gentle  Celia  also  found  a  lover  in  the  now  repentant  Oliver, 
Orlando's  brother ;  and  finally  the  nuptials  of  the  two  couples,  sanc- 
tioned and  blessed  by  the  good  Duke,  were  celebrated  in  the  grand 
old  forest. 

As  if  nothing  should  be  withheld,  necessary  to  complete  the 
happiness  of  their  wedding-day,  a  messenger  arrived  with  the 


ROSALIND.  63 

news  that  Duke  Frederick  had  been  brought  suddenly  to  repent 
of  his  injustice  to  his  elder  brother,  and  that,  converted  from 
wickedness  and  the  world,  he  had  put  on  a  religious  life — relin- 
quishing the  crown  to  the  brows  that  should  wear  it  of  right,  and 
restoring  all  their  lands  to  them  that  were  exiled. 


Rosalind,  of  all  her  "infinitely  various"  sisterhood,  is  most 
universally  the  pet,  as  combining  in  her  single  person  qualities 
which  appeal  to  all  classes  of  men  and  women.  She  has  wit  to 
charm  the  intellectual ;  a  fund  of  lively  romance  for  the  sympa- 
thetic ;  fresh  beauty,  and  a  hearty,  ringing  vitality,  for  the  merely 
material ;  and  store  of  tender,  graceful,  womanly  virtues  to  delight 
the  popular  heart — which,  certainly,  on  such  a  subject,  must  be 
esteemed  infallible. 

Notwithstanding  that  the  princess  Rosalind  was  born  and  bred 
among  the  formal  etiquettes  of  a  court,  and  accustomed  to  the 
sumptuous  luxury  of  ducal  palaces,  it  is  plain  that  she  has  pined 
and  wilted  in  so  artificial  an  atmosphere,  till,  casting  it  like  a  tire- 
some garment,  she  bounds,  full  of  ardent,  exuberant  life,  into  the 
green  midst  of  Arden.  We  cannot  easily  recognize  our  Rosalind 
in  the  languid  court-lady  of  legitimate  caprices  and  vapors,  who 
"shows  more  mirth  than  she  is  mistress  of;"  nor  ever  in  the  meek 
victim  of  whom  her  uncle,  the  duke,  draws  this  melancholy  picture, 
impossible  to  a  true  conception  of  such  a  very  madcap  of  animal 
spirits : 

*        *        *        *        Her  smoothness, 
Her  very  silence,  and  her  patience, 
Speak  to  the  people,  and  they  pity  her. 

Rosalind  smooth,  and  silent,  and  patient — above  all,  pitied ! 


64  ROSALIND. 

Is  there,  in  that,  a  trace  of  her  spirited,  self-reliant,  voluble  self? 
Could  we  not  far  more  readily  believe,  of  our  gallant  little  Gany- 
mede, that  she  had  restored  his  lawful  throne  to  her  father  by 
sheer  dint  of  her  wits,  and  her  sure  trick  of  reaching  the  hearts 
of  "  the  people,"  than  that  they  had  simply  looked  on  and  pitied 
her? 

Rosalind's  character  is  made  up  of  apparently  irreconcilable  at- 
tributes :  she  is  endowed  with  exquisite  sensibility,  yet  with  ready, 
dazzling  wit ;  she  is  intensely  romantic,  but  without  a  sigh  of  sen- 
timentalism ;  her  heart  is  brimful  of  tenderness,  while  she  con- 
ceals its  dearest  passion  beneath  a  saucy,  playful  raillery,  which 
would  be  giddy,  were  it  not  for  its  good  sense,  and  acute  insight 
into  human  nature.  The  more  Orlando  mopes,  and  grows  "  deject 
and  wretched,"  under  the  teasing  treatment  of  the  fascinating 
Ganymede,  the  more  ingenious  is  she  in  the  contrivance  of  her 
pretty  tortures,  which  every  now  and  then  reveal  charming  glimpses 
of  the  love-full  heart  under  all. 

The  dialogues  between  Orlando  and  Ganymede,  wherein  she 
personates  his  lady-love,  sparkle  throughout,  replete  with  playful 
coquetry,  arch  libels  on  "  the  fair  Rosalind,"  and  flashes  of  humor  so 
keen  that  they  have  become  proverbial — "  familiar  in  our  mouths 
as  household  words :" 


Ros.  Now  tell  me  how  long  you  would  have  her  after 
you  have  possessed  her. 
Orl.  Forever,  and  a  day. 

JRos.  Say  a  day  without  the  ever.  No,  no,  Orlando  ; 
men  are  April  when  they  woo,  December  when  they 
wed.  Maids  are  May,  when  they  are  maids ;  but  the  sky 
changes  when  they  are  wives.  I  will  be  more  jealous  of 
thee  than  a  Barbary  cock-pigeon  over  his  hen ;  more 
clamorous  than  a  parrot  against  rain ;  more  new-fangled 
than  an  ape ;  more  giddy  in  my  desires  than  a  monkey. 


W.T)rumnw7uL 


'Shepherdess  1 


AS     TO  J/     T.TKK    IT 


ROSALIND.  G5 

I  will  weep  for  nothing,  like  Diana  in  the  fountain ;  and 
I  will  do  that  when  you  are  disposed  to  be  merry.  I 
will  laugh  like  a  hyen,  and  that  when  thou  art  inclined 
to  sleep. 

Orl.  But  will  my  Rosalind  do  so  ? 

Mos.  By  my  life,  she  will  do  as  I  do ! 

Mos.  There  is  none  of  my  uncle's  marks  upon  you  :  he 
taught  me  how  to  know  a  man  in  love.     *     *    *    * 

Orl.  What  were  his  marks  ? 

Mos.  A  lean  cheek — which  you  have  not ;  a  blue  eye 
and  sunken — which  you  have  not;  an  unquestionable 
spirit — which  you  have  not.  ******  Then 
your  hose  should  be  ungarter'd,  your  bonnet  unhanded, 
your  sleeve  unbuttoned,  your  shoe  untied,  and  every 
thing  about  you  demonstrating  a  careless  desolation. 

Love  is  merely  a  madness ;  and,  I  tell  you,  deserves 
as  well  a  dark  house  and  a  whip  as  madmen  do ;  and 
the  reason  why  they  are  not  so  punished  and  cured  is, 
that  the  lunacy  is  so  ordinary  that  the  whippers  are  in 
love  too. 

*****  Men  have  died  from  time  to  time, 
and  worms  have  eaten  them — but  not  for  love. 

Break  an  hour's  promise  in  love !  He  that  will  divide 
a  minute  into  a  thousand  parts,  and  break  but  a  part  of  the 
thousandth  part  of  a  minute  in  the  affairs  of  love,  it  may 
be  said  of  him  that  Cupid  hath  clapp'd  him  o'  the 
shoulder,  but  I  warrant  him  heart-whole. 

Farewell,  monsieur  traveller !  Look  you  lisp,  and 
wear  strange  suits ;  disable  all  the  benefits  of  your  own 
country ;  be  out  of  love  with  your  nativity,  and  almost 
chide  God  for  making  you  that  countenance  you  are  ;  or 
I  will  scarce  think  you  have  swam  in  a  gondola. 

But  to  do  her  wit  and  ready  repartee  full  justice,  we  should  be 
9 


0(5  ROSALIND. 

compelled  to  transcribe  half  the  play ;  let  us  pass  then  from  what 
Rosalind  says,  to  what  is  said  of  her. 

Of  her  person  no  descriptive  passages  are  given,  save  as  she 
appears  in  the  character  of  Ganymede;  of  these,  that  of  Phebe,  a 
shepherdess,  who  becomes  enamored  of  the  sprightly  boy,  is  best 
known: 

Think  not  I  love  him,  though  I  ask  for  him ; 

'Tis  but  a  peevish  hoy — yet  he  talks  well. 

But  what  care  I  for  words  ? — Yet  words  do  well, 

When  he  that  speaks  them  pleases  those  that  hear. 

It  is  a  pretty  youth — not  very  pretty ; 

But  sure  he's  proud ; — and  yet  his  pride  becomes  him. 

He'll  make  a  proper  man.    The  best  thing  in  him 

Is  his  complexion :  and  faster  than  his  tongue 

Did  make  offence,  his  eye  did  heal  it  up. 

He  is  not  tall — yet  for  his  years  he's  tall. 

His  leg  is  but  so-so ; — and  yet  'tis  well. 

There  was  a  pretty  redness  in  his  lip — 

A  little  riper  and  more  lusty  red 

Than  that  mix'd  in  his  cheek ;  'twas  just  the  difference 

Betwixt  the  constant  red  and  mingled  damask. 

And  Oliver  says  of  her : 

The  boy  is  fair, 

Of  female  favor  ;  and  bestows  himself 

Like  a  ripe  sister.     *    *    * 

There  is  nothing  of  Rosalind  more  Rosalindy  than  her  "  Con- 
juration" in  the  Epilogue : 

*  *  *  #  My  way  js  t0  conjure  you ;  and  I'll  be- 
gin with  the  women. — I  charge  you,  O  Women,  for  the 
love  you  bear  to  men,  to  like  as  much  of  this  play  as 
pleases  them.  And  so  I  charge  you,  O  Men,  for  the  love 
you  bear  to  women  (as  I  perceive  by  your  simpering, 


ROSALIND  67 

none  of  you  hate  them),  that  between  you  and  the  wo- 
men the  play  may  please.  If  I  were  a  woman,  I  would 
kiss  as  many  of  you  as  had  beards  that  pleased  me,  com- 
plexions that  liked  me,  and  breaths  that  I  defied  not ; 
and,  I  am  sure,  as  many  as  have  good  beards,  or  good 
faces,  or  sweet  breaths,  will,  for  my  kind  offer,  when  I 
make  curt'sy,  bid  me  Farewell. 

Though,  properly,  it  is  the  actor,  speaking  for  himself  (the 
women  being  played  by  boys  in  Shakspeare's  time),  who  says, 
"  If  I  were  a  woman,"  Rosalind,  speaking  for  Ganymede,  could  say 
nothing  more  characteristic. 


ttfeWuSHMp1 


( 


f^^U^A: 


AS  TOl 


CELIA. 

Tile  pensive  sweetness  of  Celia's  character  is  too  apt  to  pass 
unappreciated,  outshone  as  it  is  by  the  brilliancy  of  her  gifted 
cousin.  Rosalind.  Yet  she  is,  in  fact,  scarcely  inferior  in  personal 
or  mental  endowments — she  is  only  more  quiet ;  her  wit  would  be 
distinguished,  were  it  not  in  direct  juxtaposition  with  the  pyro- 
technic displays  of  the  rattling  Rosalind ;  and  that  her  heart  is 
equally  full  of  tender  susceptibility,  is  proved  by  her  almost  in- 
stantaneous love  for  Oliver,  of  which  her  cousin  says  : 


There  was  never  any  thing  so  sudden.  *        *        * 

For  your  brother  and  my  sister  no  sooner  met,  but  they 
looked;  no  sooner  looked,  but  they  loved;  no  sooner 
loved,  but  they  sighed ;  no  sooner  sighed,  but  they 
asked  one  another  the  reason ;  no  sooner  knew  the 
reason,  but  they  sought  the  remedy :  and  in  these  de- 
grees have  they  made  a  pair  of  stairs  to  marriage. 

The  heroic  devotion  of  her  nature  is  beautifully  manifest  in  her 
friendship  for  her  cousin,  "  dearer  than  the  natural  bond  of  sis- 
ters " — a  friendship  so  complete  that  it  ignores  all  selfish  consider- 
ations, to  be  true  to  its  own  high  ideal.    Even  before  Rosalind  is 


70  CELIA. 

banished  the  court,  Celia  has  resolved,  if  it  should  ever  be  in  hei 
power,  to  restore  the  throne  to  its  rightful  heir,  her  cousin : 

You  know  my  father  hath  no  child  but  I,  nor  none  is 
like  to  have ;  and,  truly,  when  he  dies,  thou  shalt  be  his 
heir :  for  what  he  hath  taken  away  from  thy  father  per- 
force, I  will  render  thee  again  in  affection — by  mine 
honor,  I  will !  and  when  I  break  that  oath,  let  me  turn 
monster.  Therefore,  my  sweet  Rose,  my  dear  Rose,  be 
merry. 

And  her  pleading  to  the  duke  is  unsurpassed  for  simple,  natural 
tenderness : 

If  she  be  a  traitor, 
Why  so  am  I :  we  still  have  slept  together, 
Rose  at  an  instant,  learn'd,  play'd,  eat  together  ; 
And  wheresoe'er  we  went,  like  Juno's  swans, 
Still  we  went  coupled,  and  inseparable. 

DukeF.        ****** 
Thou  art  a  fool :  she  robs  thee  of  thy  name  ; 
And  thou  wilt  show  more  bright,  and  seem  more  virtuous, 
When  she  is  gone.    Then  open  not  thy  lips  ; 
Firm  and  irrevocable  is  my  doom 
Which  I  have  pass'd  upon  her ;  she  is  banish'd. 

Cel.  Pronounce  that  sentence  then  on  me,  my  liege  ; 
I  cannot  live  out  of  her  company. 

Celia's  friendship  for  Rosalind  exceeds  that  which  she  receives 
in  return,  from  the  very  difference  in  their  characters.  Celia  has 
far  less  vitality ;  she  yields  to  the  potent  influence  of  Rosalind  as 
a  matter  of  course,  confessing  herself  absolutely  dependent  upon 
her  companion. 

Rosalind  calmly  contemplates  the  necessity  of  leaving  Celia  for- 
ever ;  Celia  tells  her  father,  after  he  has  pronounced  his  cruel  sen- 
tence, that  she  "  cannot  live  out  of  her  company ; "  and  left  alone 


CELIA.  71 

with  her  cousin,  having  at  once  resolved  to  share  her  exile,  she 
says  to  her : 


Pr'ythee,  be  cheerful :  know'st  thou  not  the  duke 
Hath  banish'd  me,  his  daughter  ? 

Jios.  That  he  hath  not. 

Cel.  No  ?  hath  not  ?  Rosalind  lacks  then  the  love 
Which  teacheth  thee  that  thou  and  I  am  one. 
Shall  we  be  sunder'd  ?  shall  we  part,  sweet  girl  ? 
No ;  let  my  father  seek  another  heir. 
Therefore  devise  with  me,  how  we  may  fly, 
Whither  to  go,  and  what  to  bear  with  us ; 
And  do  not  seek  to  take  your  change  upon  you, 
To  bear  your  griefs  yourself,  and  leave  me  out ; 
For,  by  this  heaven,  now  at  our  sorrows  pale, 
Say  what  thou  canst,  I'll  go  along  with  thee  ! 

The  text  affords  no  description  of  Celia's  person  except  as 
Aliena,  and  contrasted  with  Ganymede : 

*****        The  woman  low, 
And  browner  than  her  brother.        *        *        * 


WO     AC1 


BEATRICE. 

Beateice  was  the  niece  of  Leonato,  Governor  of  Messina,  and 
the  beloved  companion  of  his  daughter  Hero,  with  whom  she  lived 
in  her  uncle's  palace.  Certain  gentlemen  of  rank,  on  their  way 
home  from  a  war  in  which  their  valor  had  shone  conspicuously, 
tarried  a  while  in  Messina,  as  guests  of  the  worthy  governor. 
Among  these  were  Don  Pedro,  Prince  of  Arragon ;  Claudio,  a 
Florentine  nobleman,  friend  to  the  prince ;  and  Benedick  of  Pa- 
dua, a  wild,  light-hearted  lord,  as  brave  as  he  was  witty. 

These  gentlemen  had  visited  Messina  before  the  war  began; 
and  during  their  sojourn  at  the  palace,  the  governor's  sharp-witted 
niece  had  amused  herself  with  not  very  amiable  raillery  at  Bene- 
dick's expense,  while  Hero  and  Claudio  had  been  forced  to  part 
just  as  they  discovered  that  they  were  almost  necessary  to  each 
other's  happiness.  Now  their  several  "occupations"  were  re- 
newed :  Don  Pedro  procured  the  governor's  consent  to  Claudio's 
marriage  with  the  gentle  Hero,  and  Benedick  and  Beatrice  laughed 
at  love,  and  waged  a  fiercer  war  of  words  than  ever. 

As  a  merry  mode  of  passing  the  time  which  must  elapse  before 
the  day  fixed  for  the  nuptials,  Don  Pedro  suggested  to  his  gentle- 
men the  practical  joke  of  making  Beatrice  and  Benedick — the  two 
10 


74  BEATRICE. 

sworn  foes — fall  in  love  with  each  other ;  and  at  once  they  con- 
trived a  plan,  which  soon  succeeded  to  perfection. 

Meanwhile,  however,  a  less  amiable  plot  was  hatching,  to  over- 
throw the  fond  hopes  of  Hero  and  her  affianced  husband.  Don 
John,  a  bastard  brother  of  Don  Pedro,  and  full  of  malignant  spite 
against  him,  hired  Borachio,  a  low  fellow,  to  put  aside,  by  a 
scandalous  proceeding,  this  marriage,  in  which  Don  Pedro's  honor 
and  interest  were  so  deeply  engaged. 

Borachio,  being  a  suitor  to  Margaret,  the  lady  Hero's  waiting- 
woman,  persuaded  her  to  listen  to  his  wooing  from  her  mistress's 
bed-chamber  at  midnight ;  and  the  night  before  the  wedding-day, 
Claudio  and  Don  Pedro  were  brought  by  Don  John  to  witness 
this  assignation,  which  convinced  them  of  Hero's  infidelity. 

Next  morning,  in  the  church,  before  the  friar  who  would  have 
married  them,  before  all  the  noble  company  assembled,  Claudio 
publicly  repudiated  his  bride — Don  Pedro  bearing  testimony  to 
her  unworthiness — and  so  left  the  unhappy  lady  in  a  deadly  swoon 
at  his  feet.  Following  the  friar's  advice,  Leonato  proclaimed  his 
daughter  dead,  meaning  to  avenge  the  insult  if  she  should  prove  to 
have  been  slandered,  or  to  immure  her  in  a  convent,  if  it  should 
indeed  be  as  the  two  gentlemen  had  declared.  That  very  day, 
however,  a  watchman  brought  Borachio  before  the  governor, 
charging  that  he  had  overheard  the  fellow  talking  to  a  comrade 
of  the  vile  plot  against  the  lady  Hero.  The  confession  of  Bora- 
chio at  once  cleared  the  fair  fame  of  the  injured  bride  from  all 
suspicion;  her  lover,  Lord  Claudio,  was  inconsolable  for  her  loss, 
nor  could  he  forgive  himself  the  rashness  which  had  ruined  his 
dearest  hopes.  Leonato  demanded  of  him,  as  a  reparation  to 
the  lady's  family,  that  he  should  take  to  wife  his  young  niece, 
"  almost  the  copy  of  her  that  was  dead ; "  and  Claudio,  indifferent 
now  as  to  his  fate,  consented.     What  was  his  amazement,  his  joy, 


BEATRICE.  75 

to  find  in  the  masked  lady  who  awaited  him  at  the  altar  his  own 
beloved  Hero,  on  whose  grave  he  had  wept  so  many  heart-wrung 
tears.  Too  happy  to  ask  for  more,  he  was  content  with  the  expla- 
nation vouchsafed  him  by  Leonato : 

She  died,  my  lord,  but  whiles  her  slander  lived. 

They  were  married ;  and  at  the  same  time  the  formidable  Bea- 
trice gave  her  hand  to  Benedick,  on  which  occasion  there  was  such 
rejoicing  and  festivity  in  celebration  of  the  two  weddings  as  had 
never  before  been  known  in  Messina. 


If  this  sharp-tongued  young  lady  serve  no  better  purpose  to 
the  humanity  of  this  day  and  generation,  at  least  she  saves  it  from 
one  graceless  distinction,  by  proving  in  her  own  person  that  the 
"  fast "  woman  is  by  no  means  a  modern  "  institution : "  not  that 
we  would  detract  from  the  perfected  specimens  of  our  own  time, 
by  comparison  with  this  rudimentary  example ;  but  we  contend 
that  she  possesses  all  the  qualities  necessary  to  a  successful  as- 
sumption of  the  character — her  education,  and  the  manners  of 
the  time,  alone  impede  her. 

Beatrice,  like  many  another  woman  before  and  since,  is  the 
slave  of  a  pert  tongue ;  her  intellect,  though  quick,  is  not  strong 
enough  to  keep  her  vanity  in  subjection,  and  the  consciousness  of 
possessing  in  a  ready  wit  the  power  of  discomfiting  others,  proves 
a  successful  snare  for  her  good  taste  and  all  the  graceful  effects  of 
her  gentle  breeding.  It  is  only  in  situations  so  inspiring  as  to 
compel  her  for  the  moment  to  forget  her  flippant  affectations,  that 
she  appears  as  Nature  made  her — a  spirited,  generous,  clever 
woman. 


76  BEATRICE. 

One  is  apt  to  liken  Beatrice  to  Rosalind ;  yet  their  only  points 
of  resemblance  consist  of  dramatic  situations  somewhat  similar,  and 
the  distinguishing  endowment  of  wit.  As  to  the  quality  of  this 
gift,  however,  the  two  ladies  so  differ  that  it  can  scarcely  consti- 
tute a  characteristic  in  common  between  them.  The  wit  of  Bea- 
trice, brilliant  as  it  is,  is  but  the  dazzle  of  words — it  has  no  imagi- 
native element,  none  of  the  half-playful  pathos  which  renders  that 
of  Rosalind  so  charming ;  the  two  compare  as  the  cold,  artificial 
glitter  of  a  diamond  with  the  cordial  warmth  of  sunshine.  To  use 
Benedick's  own  words — and  he,  as  chief  sufferer,  should  be  ex- 
cellent authority — Beatrice  "  speaks  poignards,  and  every  word 
stabs ; "  while,  in  the  poetic  simile  of  Mrs.  Jameson,  "  the  wit  of 
Rosalind  bubbles  up  and  sparkles  like  the  living  fountain,  refresh- 
ina:  all  around." 

Beatrice  has  none  of  Rosalind's  romantic  susceptibility,  no 
passion ;  her  love  for  Benedick  we  can  never  regard  as  more  than 
an  experimental  freak ;  though,  to  do  her  justice,  her  soliloquy  in 
the  garden,  where,  concealed,  she  has  overheard  that  Benedick 
loves  her,  is  creditable  alike  to  her  heart  and  her  good  sense  : 

What  fire  is  in  mine  ears  ?    Can  this  be  true  ? 

Stand  I  condemn'd  for  pride  and  scorn  so  much  ? 
Contempt,  farewell !  and  maiden  pride,  adieu ! 

No  glory  lives  behind  the  back  of  such. 
And,  Benedick,  love  on ;  I  will  requite  thee — 

Taming  my  wild  heart  to  thy  loving  hand ; 
If  thou  dost  love,  my  kindness  shall  incite  thee 

To  bind  our  loves  up  in  a  holy  band  : 
For  others  say  thou  dost  deserve  ;  and  I 
Believe  it  better  than  reportingly. 

It  seems  scarcely  fair  to  select  purposely  exaggerated  descrip- 
tions of  Beatrice,  by  her  cousin  Hero ;  but  as  caricatures  are  often 


BEATRICE.  77 

the  best  portraits,  so  we  cannot  fail  to  draw  from  these  severe  re- 
ports a  correct  impression  of  their  subject : 


Nature  never  framed  a  woman's  Jieart 
Of  prouder  stuff  than  that  of  Beatrice  : 
Disdain  and  scorn  ride  sparkling  in  her  eyes, 
Misprising  what  they  look  on ;  and  her  wit 
Values  itself  so  highly,  that  to  her 
All  matter  else  seems  weak.    She  cannot  love, 
Nor  take  no  shape  nor  project  of  affection — 
She  is  so  self-endear'd. 

* 

♦  *****♦* 

*  *        *        *        I  never  yet  saw  man, 
How  wise,  how  noble,  young,  how  rarely  featured, 
But  she  would  spell  him  backward  :  if  fair-faced, 
She'd  swear  the  gentleman  should  be  her  sister  ; 
If  black,  why,  Nature,  drawing  of  an  antic, 
Made  a  foul  blot ;  if  tall,  a  lance  ill-headed  ; 

If  low,  an  agate  very  vilely  cut ; 
If  speaking,  why,  a  vane  blown  with  all  winds ; 
If  silent,  why,  a  block  moved  with  none. 
So  turns  she  every  man  the  wrong  side  out, 
And  never  gives  to  truth  and  virtue  that 
Which  simpleness  and  merit  purchaseth. 

Urs.  Sure,  sure,  such  carping  is  not  commendable. 

Hero.  No :  not  to  be  so  odd,  and  from  all  fashions, 
As  Beatrice  is,  cannot  be  commendable. 
But  who  dare  tell  her  so  ?    If  I  should  speak, 
She'd  mock  me  into  air ;  oh,  she  would  laugh  me 
Out  of  myself,  press  me  to  death  with  wit. 

It  would  appear  that  Don  Pedro's  plot  found  her  in  a  happy 
hour,  more  than  half-prepared  for  its  consummation,  if  we  may 
judge  from  a  little  scene  where  Hero  is  bestowed  upon  Claudio  by 
her  father,  after  which  ceremony  the  loud  vivacity  of  Beatrice  is 
for  the  first  time,  slightly  overcast  by  genuine  emotion : 


78  BEATRICE. 

Beat,  Good  Lord,  for  alliance  ! — Thus  goes  every  one 

to  the  world*  but  I,  and  I  am  sun-burned ;  I  may  sit  in 

a  corner,  and  cry — Heigh-ho  !  for  a  husband. 
******** 

D.  Pedro.  Will  you  have  me,  lady  ? 

Beat.  No,  my  lord— unless  I  might  have  another  for 
working-days :  your  grace  is  too  costly  to  wear  every 
day.  But,  I  beseech  your  grace,  pardon  me  ;  I  was  born 
to  speak  all  mirth,  and  no  matter. 

JD.  Pedro.  Your  silence  most  offends  me,  and  to  be 
merry  best  becomes  you ;  for,  out  of  question,  you  were 
born  in  a  merry  hour. 

Beat.  No,  sure,  my  lord — my  mother  cry'd ;  but  then 
there  was  a  star  danced,  and  under  that  was  I  born. — 
Cousins,  God  give  you  joy ! 

But  however  the  gratuitous  impertinence  and  unseemly  for- 
wardness of  Beatrice  may  jar  with  one's  fine  ideas  of  a  lady,  she 
nobly  redeems  herself  by  her  chivalrous  defence  of  her  cousin 
Hero,  on  the  occasion  of  her  cruel  disgrace ;  her  hearty,  clear- 
headed 

Oh,  on  my  soul,  my  cousin  is  belied ! 

in  the  face  of  her  uncle's  conviction  of  his  daughter's  shame,  and 
Benedick's  amazed  suspicion,  is  worth  whole  volleys  of  her  mur- 
derous wit. 

The  love-scene,  immediately  succeeding  the  "scene"  in  the 
chapel,  is  as  characteristic  as  it  is  comic ;  and  though  we  may  ques- 
tion the  sincerity  of  Beatrice's  love,  in  that  she  demands  a  test  so 
fraught  with  danger  for  her  lover,  we  cannot  deny  our  admiration 
to  such  valiant  championship  in  the  cause  of  maligned  innocence: 

Bene.  I  do  love  nothing  in  the  world  so  well  as  you ; 
Is  not  that  strange  ? 

Beat.  As  strange  as  the  thing  I  know  not.  It  were  as 
possible  for  me  to  say  I  loved  nothing  so  well  as  you. 

*  To  go  to  the  icorld — a  cant  phrase,  meaning  to  get  married. 


BEATRICE.  79 

But  believe  me  not ;  and  yet  I  lie  not ;  I  confess  nothing, 

nor  I  deny  nothing. — I  am  sorry  for  my  cousin. 

Bene.  By  my  sword,  Beatrice,  thou  lovest  me ! 
******** 

Beat.  Why  then,  God  forgive  me ! 

Bene.  What  offence,  sweet  Beatrice  ? 

Beat.  You  have  staid  me  in  a  happy  hour;  I  was 
about  to  protest  I  loved  you. 

Bene.  And  do  it, with  all  thy  heart. 

Beat.  I  love  you  with  so  much  of  my  heart  that  none 
.s  left  to  protest. 

Bene.  Come,  bid  me  do  any  thing  for  thee. 

Beat.  Kill  Claudio. 

Bene.  Ha !  not  for  the  wide  world. 

Beat.  You  kill  me  to  deny  it :  Farewell. 
******** 

Bene.  Is  Claudio  thine  enemy  ? 

Beat.  Is  he  not  approved  in  the  height  a  villain,  that 
hath  slandered,  scorned,  dishonored  my  kinswoman  ? — 
O,  that  I  were  a  man  ! — What !  bear  her  in  hand  until 
they  come  to  take  hands  ;  and  then,  with  public  accusa- 
tion, uncovered  slander,  unmitigated  rancor — O  God, 
that  I  were  a  man  !  I  would  eat  his  heart  in  the  mar- 
ket-place. 

Bene.  Hear  me,  Beatrice  ; — 

Beat.  Talk  with  a  man  out  at  a  windqw  ? — a  proper 
saying. 

Bene.  Nay  but,  Beatrice  ; — 

Beat.  Sweet  Hero  ! — she  is  wronged,  she  is  slandered, 
she  is  undone. 

Bene.  Beat — 

Beat.  Princes,  and  counties?  Surely,  a  princely  tes- 
timony, a  goodly  count-confect,  a  sweet  gallant,  surely ! 
O  that  I  were  a  man  for  his  sake !  or  that  I  had  any 
friend  would  be  a  man  for  my  sake  !  But  manhood  is 
melted  into  courtesies,  valor  into  compliment,  and  men 
are  only  turned  into  tongue,  and  trim  ones  too :  he  is 
now  as  valiant  as  Hercules  that  only  tells  a  lie,  and 
swears  it. — I  cannot  be  a  man  with  wishing,  therefore  I 
*will  die  a  woman  with  grieving. 


HERO. 

In  point  of  romantic  interest  and  dramatic  situation,  Hero 
is  undoubtedly  the  leading  character  in  Much  Ado  about  Nothing, 
although,  adopting  the  popular  appreciation,  we  have  conferred 
the  distinction  of  "  first  lady  "  on  her  cousin  Beatrice — not  the  first 
time,  by  the  by,  that  loud  and  persistent  vanity  has  succeeded  in 
usurping  the  honorable  place  belonging  to  modest,  graceful  excel- 
lence. 

A  rare  chasteness  of  thought  and  person  is  plainly  the  trait 
in  Hero's  character  which  expresses  itself  most  distinctly  in  the 
affairs  of  her  daily  life ;  and  in  this  particular  she  affords  a  lively 
contrast  to  her  cousin's  inherent  vulgarity.  Her  emotions  are  as 
still  as  they  are  deep— her  words  few  ;  yet,  that  she  can  express 
herself  well  on  occasion,  is  attested  by  her  conversation  with  Ur- 
sula, designed  to  be  overheard  by  Beatrice,  in  which  her  caustic 
description  of  that  flippant  young  woman  is  quite  equal  to  many 
of  her  renowned  sallies ;  no  wonder  that  Beatrice  issues  from  her 
concealment  with  "  fire  in  her  ears." 

The  readiness  with  which  this   "maiden,  never  bold"  enters 

into  the  plot  for  catching  her  cousin's  heart — "  if  so  be  that  she 
11 


82  HERO. 

have  such  a  thing  about  her" — as  well  as  the  admirable  manner  in 
which  she  plays  her  part,  proves  that  Hero,  with  all  her  quiet 
dignity,  entertains  no  small  relish  for  fun,  and  that  she  is  far  from 
lacking  in  the  healthy  vivacity  befitting  her  youth  and  happy 
circumstance.  Her  reply  to  Don  Pedro,  when  he  proposes  her 
share  in  the  merry  conspiracy,  is  as  characteristic  as  it  is  un- 
hesitating : 

I  will  do  any  modest    office,  my  lord,  to  help  my 
cousin  to  a  good  husband. 

It  is  noticeable  that  in  the  repartee — coarse  even  for  the 
women  of  Shakspeare's  time — bandied  by  the  less  fastidious 
tongues  of  her  rattle-brain  cousin  and  -  her  *  gentlewoman,  she 
never  takes  part,  unless  to  repel  some  direct  attack  upon  herself, 
with  a 

Fye  upon  thee  !  Art  not  ashamed  ? 

— and  that,  too,  with  no  affectation  of  prudery;  her  delicacy 
is  as  virgin  as  Desdemona's,  that  very  snow-drop  among 
women. 

This  quality  is  beautifully  displayed  in  the  church,  also, 
whither  she  has  been  led  by  her  "  new-trothed  lord  " — to  be  made 
a  wife,  she  fondly  believes ;  but  finds  herself,  instead,  suddenly 
forsworn,  and  charged  with  that  of  which  her  pure  mind  has  no 
conception.  The  simple  words  of  incredulous  amazement  with 
which  she  at  first  receives  her  lover's  violent  accusations,  re- 
mind one  of  the  majestic  Hermione  on  an  occasion  somewhat 
similar : 

Claud.  Out  on  thy  seeming  !   I  will  write  against  it : 
You  seem  to  me  as  Dian  in  her  orb, 
As  chaste  as  is  the  bud  ere  it  be  blown ; 


HERO.  83 

But  you  are  more  intemperate  in  your  blood 
Than  Venus,  or  those  pamper'd  animals 
That  rage  in  savage  sensuality. 

Hero.  Is  my  lord  well,  that  he  doth  speak  so  wide  ? 

We  can  far  more  easily  forgive  Claudio,  in  the  full  tide  of 

youth  and  passion,  his  suspicions  of  his  mistress — particularly  as  he 

had  "  assisted "  at  the  chamber-window  scene — than  Leonato  his 

ready  conviction  of  his  daughter's  guilt ;  "but  we  accord  a  grateful 

memorial,  for  this  fair  lady's  sake,  to  the  good  priest,  whose  words 

of  wisdom  befit  the  sanctity  of  his  calling  and  the  purity  of  his 

heart : 

„  Friar.  Hear  me  a  little — 
For  I  have  only  been  silent  so  long, 
And  given  way  unto  this  course  of  fortune, 
By  noting  of  the  lady ;  I  have  mark'd 
A  thousand  blushing  apparitions  start 
Into  her  face,  a  thousand  innocent  shames 
In  angel  whiteness  bear  away  those  blushes ; 
And  in  her  eye  there  hath  appear'd  a  fire, 
To  burn  the  errors  that  these  princes  hold 
Against  her  maiden  truth  : — Call  me  a  fool , 
Trust  not  my  reading,  nor  my  observations, 
Which  with  experimental  zeal  doth  warrant 
The  tenor  of  my  book ;  trust  not  my  age, 
My  reverence,  calling,  nor  divinity, 
If  this  sweet  lady  lie  not  guiltless  here 
Under  some  biting  error. 


Your  daughter  here  the  princes  left  for  dead ; 
Let  her  awhile  be  secretly  kept  in, 
And  publish  it  that  she  is  dead  indeed ; 


So  will  it  fare  with  Claudio 
When  he  shall  hear  she  died  upon  his  words, 
The  idea  of  her  life  shall  sweetly  creep 


84  HERO. 

Into  his  study  of  imagination ; 

And  every  lovely  organ  of  her  life 

Shall  come  apparell'd  in  more  precious  habit, 

More  moving-delicate,  and  full  of  life, 

Into  the  eye  and  prospect  of  his  soul, 

Than  when  she  liv'd  indeed, 

Of  Hero's  person  we  have  only  a  few  hints  :  she  was  certainly 
of  low  stature,  much  less  tall  than  her  cousin  Beatrice,  for  Bene- 
dick styles  her  "  Leonato's  short  daughter ; "  and  if  it  be  not  haz- 
ardous to  take  this  merry  lord's  word  on  so  grave  an  issue,  we  may 
gather  from  him  a  more  distinct  personification — always  remem- 
bering that  he  is  already  half  in  love,  in  his  madcap  way,  with 
Beatrice,  and  would  be  therefore  likely,  in  comparing  them,  to 
disparage  Hero : 

Claud.  Benedick,  didst  thou  note  the  daughter  of 
Signior  Leonato  ? 

Bene.  I  noted  her  not ;  but  I  looked  on  her. 

Claud.  Is  she  not  a  modest  young  lady  ? 

Bene.  Do  you  question  me,  as  an  honest  man  should 
do,  for  my  simple  true  judgment  ?  or  would  you  have 
me  speak  after  my  custom,  as  being  a  professed  tyrant 
to  their  sex  ? 

Claud.  No,  I  pray  thee  speak  in  sober  judgment. 

Bene.  Why,  i'  faith,  methinks  she  is  too  low  for  a  high 
praise,  too  brown  for  a  fair  praise,  and  too  little  for  a 
great  praise.  Only  this  commendation  I  can  afford  her : 
that  were  she  other  than  she  is,  she  were  unhandsome  ; 
and  being  no  other  but  as  she. is,  I  do  not  like  her. 

Claud.  In  mine  eye,  she  is  the  sweetest  lady  that 
ever  I  looked  on. 

Bene.  I  can  see  yet  without  spectacles,  and  I  see  no 
such  matter ;  there's  her  cousin,  an  she  were  not  pos- 
sessed with  a  fury,  exceeds  her  as  much  in  beauty  as  the 
first  of  May  doth  the  last  of  December. 


f 


HERO.  85 

Be  this  as  it  may,  we  feel  bound  to  attribute  no  inconsiderable 
amount  of  beauty  to  a  woman  who  could  inspire  her  lover  with 
such  a  delicate  declaration  of  his  perception  of  it,  as  is  contained 
in  these  words  of  Claudio  to  Don  Pedro,  his  patron : 

O  my  lord, 
When  you  went  onward  on  this  ended  action, 
I  look'd  upon  her  with  a  soldier's  eye, 
That  lik'd,  but  had  a  rougher  task  in  hand 
Than  to  drive  liking  to  the  name  of  love  ; 
But  now  I  am  return'd,  and.  that  war-thoughts 
Have  left  their  places  vacant,  in  their  rooms 
Come  thronging  soft  and  delicate  desires, 
All  prompting  me  how  fair  young  Hero  is, 
Saying  I  lik'd  her  ere  I  went  to  wars. 


0 


TWO     C: 


J  U  L I A . 

* 

The  fair  Julia  of  Verona  was  the  beloved  but  coy  mistress  of 
Proteus.  This  gallant  had  a  bosom  friend,  named  Valentine — a 
gay  young  fellow,  who  laughed  at  Love  and  its  victims,  and  who, 
persuaded  that 

Home-keeping  youths  have  ever  homely  wits, 

had  just  set  out  on  a  journey  to  Milan,  where  he  was  to  engage  in 
the  service  of  the  emperor.  A  short  time  after  his  departure, 
Antonio,  the  father  of  Proteus,  determined  that  his  son  should  join 
his  friend  in  his  honorable  position  at  court,  and  forthwith  notified 
that  young  gentleman  to  prepare  for  the  journey.  Proteus  had  but 
one  sweet  drop  in  his  bitter  cup  of  trial :  his  cruel  mistress,  full  of 
remorse  and  sorrow,  confessed  her  love  for  him.  At  parting  they 
exchanged  rings,  after  the  fashion  of  true  lovers ;  and  Proteus  took 
a  last  agonizing  farewell  of  his  Julia  in  the  following  high-flown 
speech : 

Here  is  my  hand  for  my  true  constancy ; 
And  when  that  hour  o'erslips  me  in  the  day 
Wherein  I  sigh  not,  Julia,  for  thy  sake,    - 
The  next  ensuing  hour  some  foul  mischance 
Torment  me  for  my  love's  forgetfulness ! 


oo  JULIA. 

— while  poor  Julia  was  too  much  overcome  to  utter  a  single 
word- 
Arrived  at  Milan,  Proteus  found  Valentine  violently  enamoured 
of  Silvia,  the  beautiful  daughter  of  the  Duke  of  Milan,  to  whom 
Proteus  had  no  sooner  been  presented  by  his  friend  than  he  forgot 
the  lady  of  his  vows,  and  set  his  wits  to  work  to  win  this  new  love 
at  all  hazards. 

The  Duke  of  Milan  desired  to  marry  his  daughter  to  a  noble- 
man of  his  court,  Thurio  by  name,  who  was  "  by  her  very  soul  ab- 
horred ; "  for  she  reciprocated  Valentine's  passion,  and  longed  for 
nothing  more  than  to  reward  it  by  the  gift  of  her  hand  in  mar- 
riage. Feeling  sure  that  the  duke  would  never  consent  to  this, 
they  had  made  all  their  arrangements  to  elope,  but  were  discov- 
ered through  the  treachery  of  Proteus^  who,  maddened  at  the 
thought  of  losing  Silvia  forever,  had  betrayed  Valentine  to  her 
father. 

Valentine  was  at  once  banished  the  kingdom,  and  Thurio,  re- 
animated, urged  anew  his  suit,  through  Proteus,  to  the  hapless  Sil- 
via ;  Proteus  played  a  treacherous  game  with  Thurio,  also — pre- 
tending to  advance  his  interests  with  the  lady,  while  he  spoke 
only  for  his  own. 

Meanwhile,  Julia,  grown  impatient  to  behold  Jier  plighted 
lover,  conceived  the  romantic  idea  of  following  him  to  Milan ;  and 
with  no  attendant  or  protection,  save  her  disguise  as  a  "well- 
reputed  page,"  she  accomplished  her  "  sentimental  journey  "  to  that 
city.  Having  reached  there  safely,  the  host  of  the  inn  where  she 
lodged,  in  pity  for  the  loneliness  of  his  young  guest,  led  her  at 
night  to  where  she  should  hear  music — but  alas  !  what  should  the 
music  be,  but  a  serenade  given  by  her  faithless  Proteus  to  the 
Lady  Silvia,  to  whom  he  was  pressing  his  suit  as  she  leaned 
from  her  window.     Apparently  but  little  daunted,  Julia  contrived 


JULIA.  89 

to  enter  her  lover's  service  as  a  page ;  and  like  Viola — and  yet  not 
like  Viola — she  became  the  martyred  Mercury  between  her  own  be- 
loved and  the  lady  of  his  new  passion.    But  little  success  attended 

this  thankless  office  :  Silvia  scorned  the  thrice-perjured  Proteus 

for  she  knew  of  his  faithlessness  to  a  lady  in  Verona ;  and  finally, 
to  rid  herself  of  his  abhorred  proposals,  and  her  father's  impor- 
tunities in  behalf  of  Thurio,  she  formed  the  hazardous  project  of 
escaping  to  join  Valentine,  who,  she  had  heard,  had  taken  refuge 
in  Mantua. 

But  Valentine,  on  his  way  to  Mantua,  had  been  waylaid  in  a  for- 
est not  far  from  Milan,  and  by  his  gallant  bearing  had  so  pleased 
the  bandits  that  they  made  him  their  captain.  Silvia,  with  a 
gentleman  who  had  volunteered  to  accompany  her,  on  entering 
the  forest  was  seized  by  one  of  this  band  of  ruffians,  but  res- 
cued by  Proteus,  who,  followed  by  his  page,  had  pursued  her  in 
hot  haste.  Proteus  took  advantage  of  her  lonely  condition — her 
companion  having  been  separated  from  her  in  the  melee — to  urge 
his  suit  in  no  very  gentle  terms ;  but  Valentine  arrived  just  in 
time  to  thwart  his  ungracious  purpose.  Finally,  the  duke  and 
Thurio,  likewise  in  pursuit  of  Silvia,  were  captured  by  the  robbers, 
and  brought  in  triumph  before  their  captain ;  whereupon  full  ex- 
planations were  afforded  to  all  concerned :  Thurio  relinquished  his 
claim  to  Silvia's  hand,  and  the  duke,  at  last  assured  of  Valentine's 
worth,  bestowed  his  daughter  where  she  had  given  her  affections. 
Proteus  confessed  his  baseness  to  his  friend,  who  was  so  generous 
in  his  forgiveness  as  to  offer  him  even  his  share  in  Silvia's  love ; 
at  which  prospect  the  pretty  page  swooned  at  his  master's  feet. 
On  recovering,  he  exhibited  two  rings,  and  uttered  mysterious 
words  which  established  his  identity  with  a  certain  lady  of  Verona. 

Proteus,  seized  with  remorse  and  re-awakened  love  for  his  faithful 

■*■ 
Julia,  vowed  perpetual  constancy  thenceforth ;  and  if  she  was  con- 

12 


90  JULIA. 

tent  to  take  him  at  his  word,  in  the  face  of  all  she  had  been  privy 
to  in  his  double  dealings,  it  is  not  for  ns  to  demur. 


An  intense,  and  somewhat  fantastic,  romance  influences  every 
thought  and  action  of  this  spoiled  coquette  and  beauty ;  yet  in  her 
case,  as  in  that  of  many  passionate  natures,  it  is  but  the  superficial 
expression  of  deep  and  genuine  emotions.  We  have  proof  of  this 
in  the  persistent  coyness  with  which  she  receives  her  lover's  suit — 
an  artful  affectation  of  indifference,  which  is  cast  aside  at  once 
when  she  learns  that  he  is  going  away  from  her — as  well  as  in  her 
after  relations  with  him. 

The  scene  in  which  her  maid  Lucetta  brings  her  a  love-letter 
from  Proteus,  is  considered  inimitable  for  its  coquetry : 

Jul.  Say,  say !  who  gave  it  thee  ? 

Imc.  Sir  Valentine's  page  ;  and  sent,  I  think,  from  Proteus. 
He  would  have  given  it  you ;  but  I,  being  in  the  way, 
Did  in  your  name  receive  it — pardon  the  fault,  I  pray. 

Jul.  Now,  by  my  modesty,  a  goodly  broker ! 
Dare  you  presume  to  harbor  wanton  lines  ? 
To  whisper  and  conspire  against  my  youth  ? 
Now,  trust  me,  'tis  an  office  of  great  worth, 
And  you  an  officer  fit  for  the  place. 
There,  take  the  paper  !  see  it  be  return'  d  ; 
Or  else  return  no  more  into  my  sight. 

Jul.  And  yet,  I  would  I  had  o'erlook'd  the  letter. 
It  were  a  shame  to  call  her  back  again, 
And  pray  her  to  a  fault  for  which  I  chid  her. 
What  fool  is  she,  that  knows  I  am  a  maid, 
And  would  not  force  the  letter  to  my  view ! 
Since  maids,  in  modesty,  say  No  to  that 
Which  they  would  have  the  profferer  construe  Ay. 
Fie,  fie  !  how  wayward  is  this  foolish  love 


JULIA.  91 

That,  like  a  testy  babe,  will  scratch  the  nurse, 
And  presently,  all  humbled,  kiss  the  rod ! 
How  churlishly  I  chid  Lucetta  hence, 
When  willingly  I  would  have  had  her  here  ! 
How  angrily  I  taught  my  brow  to  frown, 
When  inward  joy  enforc'd  my  heart  to  smile  1 
********* 

Jul.  This  babble  shall  not  henceforth  trouble  me. 
Here  is  a  coil,  with  protestation ! 
Go,  get  you  gone  !  and  let  the  papers  lie : 
You  would  be  fingering  them  to  anger  me. 

Jul.        ******        * 

0  hateful  hands,  to  tear  such  loving  words ! 
Injurious  wasps !  to  feed  on  such  sweet  honey, 
And  kill  the  bees,  that  yield  it,  with  your  stings  ! 
I'll  kiss  each  several  paper  for  amends. 

And  here  is  writ — kind  Julia; — unkind  Julia ! 
As  in  revenge  of  thy  ingratitude, 

1  throw  thy  name  against  the  bruising  stones, 
Trampling  contemptuously  on  thy  disdain. 
Look !  here  is  writ — love-wounded  Proteus : — 
Poor  wounded  name  !  my  bosom,  as  a  bed, 

Shall  lodge  thee,  till  thy  wound  be  th'roughly  heal'd ; 
And  thus  I  search  it  with  a  sovereign  kiss. 

To  Julia's  lips  Shakspeare  has  given  one  of  the  most  admired 
of  his  love-poems : 

Didst  thou  but  know  the  inly  touch  of  love, 
Thou  would'st  as  soon  go  kindle  fire  with  snow, 
As  seek  to  quench  the  fire  of  love  with  words. 
********* 

The  more  thou  dam'st  it  up,  the  more  it  burns ; 

The  current  that  with  gentle  murmur  glides, 

Thou  know'st,  being  stopp'd,  impatiently  doth  rage  ; 

But  when  his  fair  course  is  not  hindered, 

He  makes  sweet  music  with  the  enamel'd  stones, 

Giving  a  gentle  kiss  to  every  sedge 

He  overtaketh  in  his  pilgrimage  ; 

And  so,  by  many  winding  nooks  he  strays, 


92  JULIA. 

With  willing  sport,  to  the  wild  ocean. 
Then  let  me  go,  and  hinder  not  my  course  : 
I'll  be  as  patient  as  a  gentle  stream, 
And  make  a  pastime  of  each  weary  step, 
Till  the  last  step  have  brought  me  to  my  love  ; 
And  there  I'll  rest,  as,  after  much  turmoil, 
A  blessed  soul  doth  in  Elysium. 

And  there  is  a  charming  touch,  of  feminity  in  the  choice 
of  a  costume  for  her  disguise,  which  relieves  her  pilgrimage  of 
its  ultra-heroic  quality,  and  which  a  less  subtile  creator  would 
have  omitted,  as  unworthy  the  consideration  of  so  grandiloquent 
a  heroine : 

Imc.  But  in  what  habit  will  you  go  along  ? 

Jul.  Not  like  a  woman  ;  for  I  would  prevent 
The  loose  encounters  of  lascivious  men  : 
Gentle  Lucetta,  fit  me  with  such  weeds 
As  may  beseem  some  well-reputed  page. 

luc.  Why  then  your  ladyship  must  cut  your  hair. 

Jul.  No,  girl ;  I'll  knit  it  up  in  silken  strings, 
With  twenty  odd-conceited  true-love  knots  : 
To  be  fantastic  may  become  a  youth 
Of  greater  time  than  I  shall  show  to  be. 

Imc.  What  fashion,  madam,  shall  I  make  your  breeches  ? 

Jul.  That  fits  as  well  as — "  Tell  me,  good  my  lord, 
"  What  compass  will  you  wear  your  farthingale  ?  " 
Why,  even  that  fashion  thou  best  lik'st,  Lucetta. 

Once  fairly  in  Milan,  and  shocked  with  the  sad  intelligence  of 
her  lover's  disloyalty — that  lover  for  whom  she  has  dared  so  much 
— her  proud  romance  is  quelled ;  the  lofty  ideal,  which  she  has 
clothed  with  all  the  fanciful  imaginings  of  a  sentimental  enthusiast, 
is  torn  down ;  and  in  its  place  the  honorable  possibilities  of  a  very 
faulty  man,  and  her  own  steadfast  love,  are  all  that  remain  to 
solace  her  disappointed  heart.     Yet  with  only  these  she  becomes 


JULIA.  93 

his  page,  to  enter  upon  the  most  painful  service  he  could  allot  her 
— the  wooing  of  another. 

It  is  now  that  Julia's  true  character  is  brought  to  light,  strip- 
ped of  the  idle  fantasies  which  waited  on  her  happy  love :  she  is 
brought  face  to  face  with  that  pitiless  fact,  the  assurance  of  un- 
worthiness  in  one  beloved ;  and  she  endures  the  spectacle  patient- 
ly, quietly,  the  least  in  the  world  like  those  heroines  of  romance 
who  probably  served  her  as  models  during  her  capricious  belle- 
hood  in  Verona. 

Her  tender  remonstrance  with  Proteus  is  surpassed  only  by  a 
somewhat  similar  scene  in  Twelfth  Night,  between  Viola  and  the 
duke,  which  indeed  exceeds  it  but  little  in  poetic  beauty  and  gen- 
tle pathos : 

Pro.  ******** 

Go  presently,  and  take  this  ring  with  thee  ; 
Deliver  it  to  Madam  Silvia  : 
She  loved  me  well  deliver'd  it  to  me. 

Jul.  It  seems  you  loved  not  her,  to  leave  her  token ; 
She's  dead,  belike. 

.Pro.  Not  so ;  I  think  she  lives. 

Jul.  Alas! 

Pro.  Why  dost  thou  cry  Alas ! 

Jul.  I  cannot  choose  but  pity  her. 

Pro.  Wherefore  shouldst  thou  pity  her  ? 

Jul.  Because  methinks  that  she  loved  you  as  well 
As  you  do  love  your  Lady  Silvia : 
She  dreams  on  him  that  has  forgot  her  love  ; 
You  dote  on  her  that  cares  not  for  your  love. 
'Tis  pity  Love  should  be  so  contrary ; 
And  thinking  on  it  makes  me  cry  Alas ! 

Pro.  Well,  give  her  that  ring,  and  therewithal 
This  letter ; — that's  her  chamber. — Tell  my  lady 
I  claim  the  promise  for  her  heavenly  picture. 

"When  Proteus  has  retired,  Julia,  taking  her  pride  to  task,  gives 


94  JULIA. 

expression  to  that  pity  wherewith  she  would  justify  her  infatua- 
tion— as  if  she  could  not  find  it  in  her  heart  to  deny  her  love  to 
one  so  wretchedly  unlovable  : 

How  many  women  would  do  such  a  message  ? 
Alas,  poor  Proteus !  thou  hast  entertain'd 
A  fox  to  be  the  shepherd  of  thy  lambs. 
Alas,  poor  fqol !  why  do  I  pity  him 
That  with  his  very  heart  despiseth  me  ? 
Because  he  loves  her  he  despiseth  me ; 
Because  I  love  him,  I  must  pity  him. 

— which  is  only  any  Julia's  way  of  saying,  "  Because  I  pity,  I  must 
love  him — " 

This  ring  I  gave  him,  when  he  parted  from  me, 

To  bind  him  to  remember  my  good  will ; 

And  now  am  I  (unhappy  messenger) 

To  plead  for  that  which  I  would  not  obtain, 

To  carry  that  which  I  would  have  refused, 

To  praise  his  faith  which  I  would  have  dispraised. 

I  am  my  master's  true  confirmed  love  ; 

But  cannot  be  true  servant  to  my  master, 

Unless  I  prove  false  traitor  to  myself. 

Yet  will  I  woo  for  him. 

The  scene  in  which  she  first  pays  her  duty  to  Silvia,  as  Pro- 
teus' love-messenger,  is  admirably  conceived;  and  it  affords  our 
curiosity  the  only  personal  description  of  Julia : 

♦  . 

Jul.  Madam,  he  sends  your  ladyship  this  ring. 

Sil.  The  more  shame  for  him  that  he  sends  it  me  • 
For  I  have  heard  him  say,  a  thousand  times, 
His  Julia  gave  it  him  at  his  departure. 
Though  his  false  finger  have  profan'd  the  ring, 
Mine  shall  not  do  his  Julia  so  much  wrong. 

Dost  thou  know  her  ? 


JULIA.  95 

Jul.  Almost  as  well  as  I  do  know  myself. 
******* 

jSil.  Is  she  not  passing  fair  ? 

Jul.  She  hath  been  fairer,  madam,  than  she  is : 
When  she  did  think  my  master  lov'd  her  well, 
She,  in  my  judgment,  was  as  fair  as  you ; 
But  since  she  did  neglect  her  looking-glass, 
And  threw  her  sun-expelling  mask  away, 
The  air  hath  starv'd  the  roses  in  her  cheeks, 
And  pinch'd  the  lily-tincture  of  her  face, 
That  now  she  is  become  as  black  as  I. 

Silvia,  whose  interest  is  as  honest  as  it  is  amiable,  desires  to 
know  how  tall  she  is : 

Jul.  About  my  stature ;  for  at  Pentecost, 

When  all  our  pageants  of  delight  were  play'd, 

Our  youth  got  me  to  play  the  woman's  part, 

And  I  was  trimm'd  in  Madam  Julia's  gown, 

Which  served  me  as  fit,  by  all  men's  judgment, 

As  if  the  garment  had  been  made  for  me ; 

Therefore,  I  know  she  is  about  my  height. 
********* 

Here  is  her  picture  :  Let  me  see !  I  think 

If  I  had  such  a  tire,  this  face  of  mine 

Were  full  as  lovely  as  is  this  of  hers ; 

And  yet  the  painter  flatter'd  her  a  little, 

Unless  I  flatter  with  myself  too  much. 

Her  hair  is  auburn — mine  is  perfect  yellow : 

If  that  be  all  the  difference  in  his  love, 

I'll  get  me  such  a  color'd  periwig. 

Her  eyes  are  grey  as  glass — and  so  are  mine  ; 

Ay,  but  her  forehead's  low — and  mine's  as  high 

What  should  it  be  that  he  respects  in  her 

But  I  can  make  respective  in  myself, 

If  this  fond  Love  were  not  a  blinded  god  ? 

We  can  hut  rejoice  that  Julia's  fidelity  is  rewarded  at  last  by 
the  restored  allegiance  of  her  recreant  lover ;  though  we  must  con- 


9C  JULIA. 

fess  to  but  little  faith  in  a  repentance  which  seems  forced  upon 
him.  That  he  is  a  treacherous,  weak,  thoroughly  contemptible 
character,  however,  should  affect  our  admiration  of  Julia's  devotion 
to  him  as  little  as  it  did  her  love — or  in  fact  that  of  any  woman 
since  time  began. 


ista. 


.:  ■ 


ft  lj.ApnIct.aii  k  C?'M.3&44!i Broadway. 


SILVIA. 

The  bare  facts  of  Silvia's  story,  which  are  almost  identical 
with  those  of  Julia's,  would  to  a  certain  extent  warrant  one  in 
imagining  a  like  identity  of  character ;  yet  there  is  a  clear  differ- 
ence between  the  gracious,  well-disciplined  Lady  Silvia — a  court 
beauty,  whose  lightest  act  is  governed  by  prescribed  etiquette,  and 
whose  lofty  dignity  despises  all  tricks  to  attract  admiration,  all 
coquettish  displays  of  wit  or  person — and  the  Veronese  belle, 
whose  caprices  are  as  countless  as  her  lovers,  and  whose  pretty 
head  is  at  one  time  almost  hopelessly  turned  by  their  fine  speeches 
and  the  delightful  contemplation  of  her  own  perfections.  Both 
are  in  love ;  but  how  different  is  its  expression  in  the  two  women : 
Silvia,  incapable  of  indulging  her  vanity  at  the  expense  of  her 
lover's  peace,  condescends  to  a  pretty  ruse  to  assure  him  of  her 
favor ;  Julia,  in  the  hey-day  of  successful  coquetry,  alternately 
blesses  Proteus  and  drives  him  to  despair,  twenty  times  a  day,  as 
her  fantastic  humor  may  dictate — consenting  to  make  him  happy, 
by  a  confession  of  her  preference,  only  when  her  genuine  sorrow 
at  parting  from  him  gets  the  better  of  her  caprice. 

In  devotion  and  fidelity  they  assimilate  more  closely — but  only 

in  degree,  not  in  kind :  we  feel  sure  that  Silvia  could  never  have 
13 


98  SILVIA. 

continued  to  love  a  man  whom  she  had  found  treacherous ;  with  her 
passion  would  always  be  subordinate  to  principle ;  a  shock  to  her 
sense  of  honor,  from  the  object  beloved,  would  prove  its  death- 
blow. She  is  less  loving,  in  a  general  application  of  the  expres- 
sion, less  impulsive,  less  vain,  less  womanly,  than  Julia ; — or  rather, 
she  is  a  higher  type  of  woman :  Silvia  derives  her  strength  from 
her  intellect ;  Julia  is  strong  only  in  her  affections. 

As  for  their  amorous  pilgrimages :  Julia's  is  undertaken  in 
obedience  to  an  impulse  of  wild,  adventurous  romance,  having  no 
authorities  to  consult  but  her  waiting-maid  and  her  own  accommo- 
dating will — a  delicious  indulgence  of  high-wrought  passion  in 
picturesque  disguise,  in  mystery,  in  possible  danger.  That  of  Sil- 
via, on  the  other  hand,  is  forced  upon  her  by  cruel  necessity : 
suffering  the  impertinent  and  pertinacious  espionage  of  her  father, 
and  the  suits  of  two  detested  aspirants  for  her  hand,  while  her 
betrothed  husband  is  banished  the  country,  she  has  no  choice 
but  to  comply  with  her  father's  wishes  and  marry  Thurio,  or  to 
follow  at  all  hazards  him  to  whom  her  faith  is  plighted.  Having 
once  resolved  on  the  latter  course,  she  pursues  it  with  her  char- 
acteristic dignity  and  careful  deliberation ;  and  she  escapes  from 
her  father's  custody  under  the  protection  of  a  gentleman  of  the 
court,  who  is  "  vow'd  to  pure  chastity"  on  the  grave  of  his  lady- 
love. We  are  convinced  that  nothing  short  of  violence  could 
have  turned  Silvia  from  her  purpose ;  but  we  can  readily  believe 
that  some  necessary  disfigurement  in  her  page's  costume  might 
have  rendered  Julia's  proposed  freak  distasteful,  or  even  have  de- 
terred her  from  it  altogether. 

Her  beauty  is,  with  Julia,  a  consideration  of  the  first  impor- 
tance ;  she  has  made  it  the  study  of  her  dainty  life ;  in  a  coquettish 
engagement  she  knows  to  a  hair  of  her  pencilled  eyebrows  how 
much  each  weapon  is  worth,  and  when  the  time  to  employ  it ;  her 


SILVIA.  99 

first  thought,  on  seeing  the  woman  who  has  caused  her  lover  tc 
forget  her.  is :  In  what  is  she  more  beautiful  than  I,  that  he  should 
love  her  better  ?  Silvia  is  not  less  informed  of  her  rare  charms 
of  person — perhaps  no  less  happy  in  that  knowledge ;  but  she  is 
seemingly  devoid  of  even  a  trace  of  vanity ;  her  serene  brows  are 
as  guiltless  of  the  blushes  of  a  vulgar  consciousness  as  those, 
crescent-crowned,  of  Dian. 

We  may  scarcely  accept  lovers'  words  as  evidence,  in  a  case 
requiring  such  nice  impartiality ;  yet  even  their  hyperbolical  rhap- 
sodies may  assist  us  in  establishing  a  theory  concerning  the  source 
of  their  inspiration : 

Pro.       ***** 
Was  this  the  idol  that  you  worship  so  ? 

Val.  Even  she  ;  and  is  she  not  a  heavenly  saint  ? 

Pro.  No  ;  but  she  is  an  earthly  paragon. 

Val.  Call  her  divine. 

Pro.  I  will  not  flatter  her. 

******* 

Val.  Then  speak  the  truth  by  her  ;  if  not  divine, 
Yet  let  her  be  a  principality, 
Sovereign  to  all  the  creatures  on  the  earth. 

Pro.  Except  my  mistress. 

Vol.  Sweet,  except  not  any — 

Except  thou  wilt  accept  against  my  love. 

Pro.  Have  I  not  reason  to  prefer  mine  own? 

Val.  And  I  will  help  thee  to  prefer  her  too  : 
She  shall  be  dignified  with  this  high  honor — 
To  bear  my  lady's  train  ;  lest  the  base  earth 
Should  from  her  vesture  chance  to  steal  a  kiss, 
And,  of  so  great  a  favor  growing  proud, 
Disdain  to  root. the  summer-swelling  flower, 
And  make  rough  winter  everlastingly. 

Pro.  Why,  Valentine,  what  braggardism  is  this  ? 

Val.  Pardon  me,  Proteus  :  all  I  can  is  nothing, 
To  her  whose  worth  makes  other  worthies  nothing  ; 
She  is  alone. 


100  SILVIA. 

Pro.  Then  let  her  alone. 

Vol.  Not  for  the  world.    Why,  man,  she  is  mine  own  ; 
And  I  as  rich  in  having  such  a  jewel 
As  twenty  seas,  if  all  their  sand  were  pearl, 
The  water  nectar,  and  the  rocks  pure  gold. 

Proteus,  alone : 

******* 

Is  it  mine  eye,  or  Valentinus'  praise, 

Her  true  perfection,  or  my  false  transgression, 

That  makes  me  reasonless,  to  reason  thus  ? 

******** 

How  shall  I  dote  on  her  with  more  advice 
That  thus,  without  advice,  begin  to  love  her  ? 
'Tis  hut  her  picture  I  have  yet  beheld, 
And  that  hath  dazzled  my  reason's  light ; 
But  when  I  look  on  her  perfections, 
There  is  no  reason  but  I  shall  be  blind. 
*         *         *         *,*         *         *         * 

And  Silvia — witness  Heaven,  that  made  her  fair  ! — 
Shows  Julia  but  a  swarthy  Ethiope. 

A  few  passages,  here  and  there,  will  serve  to  illustrate  Silvia's 
character.  The  following  soliloquy  of  Proteus,  touching  his  perfid- 
ious suit,  does  her  honor,  even  from  lips  so  unworthy : 


But  Silvia  is  too  fair,  too  true,  too  holy, 
To  be  corrupted  with  my  worthless  gifts. 
When  I  protest  true  loyalty  to  her, 
She  twits  me  with  my  falsehood  to  my  friend  ; 
When  to  her  beauty  I  commend  my  vows, 
She  bids  me  think  how  I  have  been  forsworn 
In  breaking  faith  with  Julia  whom  I  lov'd ; 
And,  notwithstanding  all  her  sudden  quips, 
The  least  whereof  would  quell  a  lover's  hope, 
Yet,  spaniel-like,  the  more  she  spurns  my  love, 
The  more  it  grows  and  fawneth  on  her  still. 


SILVIA.  101 

And  her  own  words  to  him,  in  Julia's  hearing,  on  the  night  of 
the  serenade,  afford  still  more  conclusive  evidence  of  her  incor- 
ruptible purity : 


Thou  subtle,  perjur'd,  false,  disloyal  man ! 
Think'st  thou  I  am  so  shallow,  so  conceitless, 
To  be  seduced  by  thy  flattery, 
That  hast  deceiv'd  so  many  with  thy  vows  ? 
Return,  return,  and  make  thy  love  amends ! 
For  me, — by  this  pale  queen  of  night  I  swear  !— 
I  am  so  far  from  granting  thy  request, 
That  I  despise  thee  for  thy  wrongful  suit ; 
And  by  and  by  intend  to  chide  myself, 
Even  for  this  time  I  spend  in  talking  to  thee. 


7) 


//. 


ACT  Z ,  SC*. 


VIOLA. 

Viola  was  the  daughter  of  one  Sebastian,  a  Messalinian,  and  of 
gentle  blood.  Voyaging  with  her  twin-brother  Sebastian,  near  the 
coast  of  Ulyria,  a  terrible  storm  arose,  which  wrecked  the  vessel, 
only  a  few  of  her  crew  reaching  the  shore.  Viola  was  among  the 
saved ;  but  her  brother's  fate  for  a  time  remained  unknown.  A 
young  and  beautiful  woman,  without  protection,  in  a  strange  land, 
she  conceived  the  familiar  idea  of  attiring  herself  as  a  page,  to 
engage  service  in  some  noble  family ;  and  thus,  through  the  influ- 
ence of  the  captain  of  the  wrecked  vessel,  she  obtained  admission, 
under  the  name  of  Cesario,  into  the  household  of  Orsino,  duke  of 
Ulyria. 

This  young  nobleman  had  long  been  enamoured  of  the  Countess 
Olivia,  a  noble  and  wealthy  lady,  who  did  not  in  the  least  recipro- 
cate his  preference.  Orsino,  prepossessed  with  his  pretty  page, 
made  Viola  his  confidant  in  his  unhappy  love  affair,  and  consti- 
tuted it  her  chief  duty  to  deliver  his  tender  messages  to  the  inac- 
cessible countess. 

Olivia,  denying  herself  to  all  others,  received  the  handsome 
boy,  with  whom,  despite  their  unequal  rank,  she  promptly  fell  in 
love,  and,  after  a  few  interviews,  confessed  her  passion  for  him. 


104  VIOLA. 

Viola,  dismayed  by  the  false  position  into  which  her  disguise 
had  betrayed  her,  herself  in  love  with  the  gallant  duke,  assured 
the  countess,  in  reply,  that  no  woman  did,  or  ever  should,  possess 
her  heart,  and  that  she  would  never  again  approach  her,  even  on 
her  master's  errand. 

Sebastian,  Viola's  brother,  had  happily  been  saved  from  the 
wreck,  by  his  friend  Antonio.  Walking  one  day  past  Olivia's 
house,  he  was  violently  assailed  by  that  lady's  uncle,  Sir  Toby 
Belch,  who,  from  Sebastian's  exact  resemblance  to  his  sister  Viola, 
mistook  him  for  Cesario,  and  accused  him  of  a  previous  insult. 
The  countess,  informed  of  the  altercation,  hastened  to  the  rescue 
of  her  beloved  Cesario,  and  was  deceived  equally  with  her  uncle. 
She  conducted  Sebastian  into  the  house,  and  bestowed  her  hospi- 
tality with  such  fascinating  grace  that  the  lucky  youth,  though 
amazed  at  his  reception,  was  charmed  with  her  elegance  and 
beauty.  Olivia,  delighted  to  find  the  disdainful  Cesario  suddenly 
metamorphosed  into  a  lover,  at  once  proposed  that  they  should 
seal  their  vows  before  a  priest  who  was  then  at  hand ;  to  which 
Sebastian,  now  deep  in  love,  consented — and  they  were  married. 

The  marvellous  resemblance  between  Viola  and  Sebastian — 

One  face,  one  voice,  one  habit,  and  two  persons — 

was  shortly  the  occasion  of  another  contre-temps :  Antonio,  Sebas- 
tian's preserver,  mistook  Viola  for  her  brother,  and,  in  the  presence 
of  the  duke,  accused  her  of  base  ingratitude,  in  ignoring  him  who 
had  saved  her  life.  But  even  while  he  was  speaking,  Olivia  en- 
tered, and  claimed  Viola  as  her  husband ;  this  aroused  the  jea]ous 
rage  of  Orsino,  who  naturally  inferred  that  his  page  had  been 
playing  him  false  ;  but  the  eclaircissement  and  the  crowning  mys- 
tification were  simultaneously  achieved  by  the  entrance  of  Se- 
bastian. 


VIOLA.  105 

Hereupon,  explanations,  satisfactory  to  all :  Olivia  was  nothing 
loth  to  retain  the  bridegroom  she  had  chosen  so  hastily ;  and  Or- 
sino,  always  tenderly  attached  to  his  faithful  page,  found  it  by  no 
means  difficult,  now  that  Olivia  was  forever  lost  to  him,  to  transfer 
his  affections  to  Viola,  when  she  appeared  before  him  in  her  proper 
character — a  young  and  beautiful  woman  who  adored  him.  And 
thus  their  misfortune  proved  indeed  a  "most  happy  wreck"  to  the 
twins — the  one  gaining  thereby  a  gallant  and  noble  husband,  the 
other  a  beautiful  and  wealthy  wife. 


Viola,  without  possessing  any  of  those  brilliant  qualities  that 
compel  our  admiration  in  Portia,  Rosalind,  or  Beatrice,  endears 
herself  to  us  by  the  ingenuousness,  modesty,  and  tenderness  of  her 
character.  Like  Rosalind,  Viola  disguises  herself  as  a  page  ;  but 
instead  of  assuming  that  "  swashing  and  martial  outside "  which 
Rosalind  affects,  as  part  of  her  masculine  attire,  she  is  most  dis- 
creetly disposed,  permitting  herself  no  word  or  gesture  inconsistent 
with  the  nicest  propriety ;  she  changes  nothing  but  her  dress — 
she  is  Viola  throughout.  Each  is  in  daily  intercourse  with  the 
man  she  loves.  "With  Orlando,  Rosalind  is  saucy  and  coquettish ; 
Viola  manifests  her  self-sacrificing  devotion  to  Orsino,  by  becom- 
ing his  love-herald  to  the  proud  Olivia — wooing  for  her  master 
from  another  the  bliss  which  she  longed  to  bestow  only  through 
herself. 

Like  Rosalind  again,  Viola  is  beloved  by  a  woman ;  but  the 
Countess  Olivia  differs  as  widely  from  the  capricious  shepherdess, 
Phebe,  as  tne  treatment  which  their  infatuations  severally  receive : 
Rosalind  mocks,  and  plays  with,  Phebe's  preference,  even  while 
she  repulses  it;  Viola's  feminine  reserve  is  shocked  at  the  un- 


14 


106  VIOLA. 

wooed  confession  of  Olivia's  love.     Yet  how  full  of  teiidei    pity 
are  her  words,  when  first  she  suspects  the  hapless  truth : 

What  means  this  lady  ? 

Fortune  forbid  my  outside  have  not  charm'd  her  ! 

She  made  good  view  of  me — indeed,  so  much 

That  sure,  methought,  her  eyes  had  lost  her  tongue ; 

For  she  did  speak  in  starts,  distractedly. 

She  loves  me,  sure  ; 
******** 

If  it  be  so,  (as  'tis,) 
Poor  lady,  she  were  better  love  a  dream. 
Disguise,  I  see,  thou  art  a-wickedness, 
Wherein  the  pregnant  enemy  does  much. 
How  easy  is  it  for  the  proper-false 
In  women's  waxen  hearts  to  set  their  forms  ! 
Alas,  our  frailty  is  the  cause,  not  we  ; 
For  such  as  we  are  made  of,  such  we  be. 
How  will  this  fadge  ?    My  master  loves  her  dearly ; 
And  I,  poor  monster,  fond  as  much  on  him  ; 
And  she,  mistaken,  seems  to  dote  on  me  : 
What  will  become  of  this  !    As  I  am  man, 
My  state  is  desperate  for  my  master's  love  ; 
As  I  am  woman — now  alas  the  day ! 
What  thriftless  sighs  shall  poor  Olivia  breathe  ? 
O  Time,  thou  must  untangle  this,  not  I ; 
It  is  too  hard  a  knot  for  me  to  untie. 

r 

Of  her  person,  her  brother  Sebastian  says  : 

A  lady,  sir,  though  it  was  said  she  much  resembled  me, 
was  yet  of  many  accounted  beautiful;  but  though  I 
could  not,  with  such  estimable  wonder,  over  far  believe 
that,  yet  thus  far  I  will  boldly  publish  her — she  bore  a 
mind  that  envy  could  not  but  call  fair. 

The  description  by  Malvolio,  Olivia's  steward,  is  characteristic 

Not  yet  old  enough  for  a  man,  nor  young  enough  for 
a  boy ;  as  a  squash  is  before  'tis  a  peascod,  or  a  codling 


VIOLA.  107 

when  'tis  almost  an  apple :  'tis  with  him  e'en  standing 
water,  between  boy  and  man.  He  is  very  well-favored, 
and  he  speaks  very  shrewishly ;  one  would  think  his 
mother's  milk  were  scarce  out  of  him. 

We  have  abundant  evidence  of  the  high-bred  grace  of  hei 
bearing,  in  the  rapturous  soliloquy  of  the  Lady  Olivia,  even  after 
due  allowance  has  been  made  for  the  exaggeration  of  love : 

What  is  your  parentage  ? 

Above  my  fortunes  J  yet  my  state  is  well — 

I  am  a  gentleman. I'll  be  sworn  thou  art ; 

Thy  tongue,  thy  face,  thy  limbs,  actions,  and  spirit, 

Do  give  thee  five-fold  blazon. — Not  too  fast : — soft !  soft ! — 

Unless  the  master  were  the  man. — How  now  ? 

Even  so  quickly  may  one  catch  the  plague  ? 

Methinks  I  feel  this  youth's  perfections, 

With  an  invisible  and  subtle  stealth, 

To  creep  in  at  mine  eyes.    Well,  let  it  be. 

A  dialogue  between  Viola  and  the  Duke  Orsino  affords  us  the 
clearest  insight  into  the  sweet  pensiveness  of  her  mind,  intensified 
somewhat  by  hopeless  devotion  to  her  master : 

Vio.  But  if  she  cannot  love  you,  sir  ? 

Duke.  I  cannot  be  so  answer' d. 

Vio.  'Sooth,  but  you  must. 

Say  that  some  lady,  as  perhaps  there  is, 
Hath  for  your  love  as  great  a  pang  of  heart 
As  you  have  for  Olivia :  you  cannot  love  her ; 
You  tell  her  so.    Must  she  not  then  be  answer'd  ? 

Duke.  There  is  no  woman's  sides 
Can  bide  the  beating  of  so  strong  a  passion 
As  love  doth  give  my  heart — no  woman's  heart 
So  big,  to  hold  so  much ;  they  lack  retention. 
Alas !  their  love  may  be  called  appetite, — 
No  motion  of  the  liver,  but  the  palate, — 
That  suffer  surfeit,  cloyment,  and  revolt ; 


108  VIOLA. 

But  mine  is  all  as  hungry  as  the  sea, 
And  can  digest  as  much.    Make  no  compare 
Between  that  love  a  woman  can  bear  me 
And  that  I  owe  Olivia. 

Vio.  Ay,  but  I  know — 

Duke.  What  dost  thou  know  ? 

Vio.  Too  well  what  love  women  to  men  may  owe : 
In  faith,  they  are  as  true  of  heart  as  we. 
My  father  had  a  daughter  lov'd  a  man — 
As  it  might  be,  perhaps,  were  I  a  woman, 
I  should  your  lordship. 

Duke.  And  what's  her  history  ? 

Vio.  A  blank,  my  lord  :  She  never  told  her  love  ; 
But  let  concealment,  like  a  worm  i'  the  bud, 
Feed  on  her  damask  cheek.     She  pin'd  in  thought ; 
And,  with  a  green  and  yellow  melancholy, 
She  sat,  like  Patience  on  a  monument, 
Smiling  at  grief.    Was  not  this  love,  indeed  ? 
We  men  may  say  more,  swear  more ;  but,  indeed, 
Our  shows  are  more  than  will ;  for  still  we  prove 
Much  in  our  vows,  but  little  in  our  love. 

Duke.  But  died  thy  sister  of  her  love,  my  boy  ? 

Vio.  I  am  all  the  daughters  of  my  father's  house, 
And  all  the  brothers  too  ; — and  yet  I  know  not. — 
Sir,  shall  I  to  this  lady  ? 

Duke.  Ay !  that's  the  theme. 

To  her  in  haste ;  give  her  this  jewel ;  say 
My  love  can  give  no  place,  bide  no  denay. 


■s6frfrZJs. 


TWEHFTl 


OLIVIA. 

The  prominent  events  in  the  history  of  the  Countess  Olivia 
have  already  been  noted  in  the  chapter  devoted  to  Viola.  Cele- 
brated for  beauty — the  charm  of  which  is  doubtless  enhanced 
by  the  "quantity  of  dirty  lands"  whereof  she  is  mistress — of 
a  "smooth,  discreet,  and  stable  bearing,"  "swaying  her  house, 
commanding  her  followers,"  with  the  innate  dignity  of  a  lady  ac- 
customed from  birth  to  princely  surroundings,  she  has  neverthe- 
less all  the  legitimate  caprices  of  an  imperious  belle. 

Olivia  persistently  rejects  the  violent  suit  of  an  accomplished, 
elegant  nobleman — a  parti  exactly  suited  in  every  particular  to 
her  station  in  life — to  bestow  her  coveted  favors  on  the  obscure 
little  page  of  her  princely  lover ;  and  the  very  condescension  im- 
plied in  this  eccentricity  acquits  her  love  for  Viola  of  the  charge 
of  indelicacy.  We  regard  her  sudden  fancy  for  the  pretty  boy  as 
the  unchecked  whim  of  the  moment ;  to  use  her  own  words,  it 
was  "  that  time  of  moon  "  with  her  to  be  so  impressed ;  it  has  by 
no  means  attained  the  dignity  of  passion  in  our  minds,  nor  do  we 
ever  propose  to  try  it  by  the  rules  and  regulations  applicable  to 
cases  of  orthodox  love-making. 

Yet,  for  all  that,  it  is  serious  enough;  Juliet,  herself,  is  not 


110  OLIVIA. 

more  tenderly  impatient,  nor  more  suddenly  involved,  than  our 
wilful  countess. 

In  a  propitious  moment  she  imagines  she  finds  Oesario  respon- 
sive to  her  suit,  and  with  a  woman's  quick  appropriation  of  oppor- 
tunity thus  addresses  him : 

Blame  not  this  haste  of  mine :  If  you  mean  well, 
Now  go  with  me,  and  with  this  holy  man, 
Into  the  chantry  by.    There,  before  him, 
And  underneath  that  consecrated  roof, 
Plight  me  the  full  assurance  of  your  faith, 
That  my  most  jealous  and  too  doubtful  soul 
May  live  at  peace. 

And  with  what  reckless  abandon  does  she  confess  her  love  for  the 
page: 

O,  what  a  deal  of  scorn  looks  beautiful 

In  the  contempt  and  anger  of  his  lip  ! 

A  murd'rous  guilt  shows  not  itself  more  soon 

Than  love  that  would  seem  hid.     Love's  night  is  noon. 

Cesario,  by  the  roses  of  the  spring, 

By  maidhood,  honor,  truth,  and  every  thing, 

I  love  thee  so,  that,  maugre  all  thy  pride, 

Nor  wit,  nor  reason,  can  my  passion  hide. 

She  continues  to  urge  her  hopeless  suit  with  no  less  ardor  and 
self-forgetfulness ;  thus  prettily  she  puts  aside  the  duke's  love- 
making,  to  advance  her  own : 

O,  by  your  leave,  I  pray  you : 

I  bade  you  never  speak  again  of  him; 

But,  would  you  undertake  another  suit, 

I  had  rather  hear  you  to  solicit  that 

Than  music  from  the  spheres. 

Vio.  Dear  lady, 

Oli.  Give  me  leave,  I  beseech  you  :  I  did  send, 

After  the  last  enchantment  you  did  here, 


OLIVIA.  Ill 

A  ring  in  chase  of  you ;  so  did  I  abuse 

Myself,  my  servant — and,  I  fear  me,  you. 

Under  your  hard  construction  must  I  sit, 

To  force  that  on  you,  in  a  shameful  cunning, 

"Which  you  knew  none  of  yours.    What  might  you  think  ? 

Have  you  not  set  mine  honor  at  the  stake, 

And  baited  it  with  all  the  unmuzzled  thoughts 

That  tyrannous  heart  can  think  ?    To  one  of  your  receiving 

Enough  is  shown ;  a  cypress,  not  a  bosom, 

Hides  my  poor  heart. 
********* 

Here !  wear  this  jewel  for  me  ;  'tis  my  picture. 
Refuse  it  not ;  it  hath  no  tongue  to  vex  you ; 
And,  I  beseech  you,  come  again  to-morrow. 
What  shall  you  ask  of  me  that  I'll  deny — 
That  honor,  sav'd,  may  upon  asking  give  ? 

As  to  her  personal  charms,  Viola  addresses  her  as  "  Most  ra- 
diant, exquisite,  and  unmatchable  beauty,"  and  says  of  her  face : 

'Tis  beauty  truly  blent,  whose  red  and  white 

Nature's  own  sweet  and  cunning  hand  laid  on. 
********* 

I  see  you  what  you  are :  you  are  too  proud ; 
But,  if  you  were  the  devil,  you  are  fair.    . 

Olivia  acknowledges  to  Qesario  her  fault  of  unwomanly  bold- 
ness ;  but  the  confession  is  plainly  neither  preceded  nor  followed 
by  even  a  pretence  of  penitence ;  it  is  but  one  of  the  thousand 
coquettish  tricks  of  a  spoiled  beauty  to  win  back  the  respect  which 
she  feels  she  has  justly  forfeited: 

I  have  said  too  much  unto  a  heart  of  stone, 
And  laid  my  honor  too  unchary  out ; 
There's  something  in  me  that  reproves  my  fault ; 
But  such  a  headstrong,  potent  fault  it  is, 
That  it  but  mocks  reproof. 


ACT  i,  SC. 


MARIA. 

Maria,  waiting-woman  to  the  Countess  Olivia,  is  a  true  type 
of  the  mischief-making  heroine  of  life  below-stairs — the  stage 
soubrette.  Arch,  coquettish,  full  of  genuine  humor,  her  ready  re- 
sources of  fun  are  liberally  diffused  throughout  this  charming 
comedy,  with  a  bewildering  succession  of  ludicrous  situations,  and 
merry  mishaps  deduced  from  them. 

Malvolio,  steward  of  Olivia's  household,  having  presumed  to 
take  exception  to  the  noisy  and  not  over-nice  carousals  of  Sir 
Toby  Belch,  for  whom  Maria  entertains  a  saucy  sort  of  prefer- 
ence, she,  to  be  quits  with  him — but  more,  perhaps,  for  love  of  a 
practical  jest — resolves  to  make  him  ridiculous.  This  she  accom- 
plishes effectually ;  but  the  following  groundwork  of  her  plot 
affords  but  an  incomplete  idea  of  its  laughable  consequences : 

Mar.  The  devil  a  Puritan  that  he  is,  or  any  thing  con- 
stantly but  a  time-pleaser — an  affection'd  ass,  that  cons 
state  without  book,  and  utters  it  by  great  swarths ;  the 
best  persuaded  of  himself;  so  crammed,  as  he  thinks, 
with  excellences,  that  it  is  his  ground  of  faith  that  all 
that  look  on  him  love  him  ;  and  on  that  vice  in  him  will 
my  revenge  find  notable  cause  to  work. 

Sir  To.  What  wilt  thou  do  ? 
15 


114  MARIA. 

Mar .  I  will  drop  in  his  way  some  obscure  epistles  of 
love,  wherein,  by  the  color  of  his  beard,  the  shape  of  his 
leg,  the  maimer  of  his  gait,  the  expressure  of  his  eye, 
forehead,  and  complexion,  he  shall  find  himself  most 
feelingly  personated :  I  can  write  very  like  my  lady,  your 
niece ;  on  a  forgotten  matter  We  can  hardly  make  dis- 
tinction of  our  hands. 
********** 

Sir  To.  He  shall  think,  by  the  letters  that  thou  wilt 
drop,  that  they  come  from  my  niece,  and  that  she  is  in 
love  with  him. 

Mar.  My  purpose  is,  indeed,  a  horse  of  that  color. 

A  sketch,  only,  of  the  garden  scene,  and  we  have  done  with 
this  merry  episode : 

Sir  To.  Here  comes  the  little  villain  : — How  now,  my 
metal  of  India  ? 

Mar.  Get  ye  all  three  into  the  box-tree  ;  Malvolio's 
coming  down  this  Walk  ;  he  has  been  yonder  i'  the  sun, 
practising  behavior  to  his  own  shadow,  this  half  hour  : 
observe  him,  for  the  love  of  mockery ;  for  I  know  this 
letter  will  make  a  contemplative  idiot  of  him.  Close,  in 
the  name  of  jesting !  [The  men  hide  themselves.]  Lie 
thou  there !  [throws  down  a  letter]  for  here  comes  the 
trout  that  must  be  caught  with  tickling. 

Mai.  By  my  life,  this  is  my  lady's  hand  !  These  be 
her  very  (7's,  her  CT's,  and  her  Ts ;  and  thus  makes  she 
her  great  P's^     It  is,  in  contempt  of  question,  her  hand. 


* 

ft 

* 

* 

* 

* 

* 

* 

* 

* 

* 

* 

* 

* 

* 

* 

* 

* 

* 

* 

I  do  not  now  fool  myself,  to  let  imagination  jade  me ; 
for  every  reason  excites  to  this, — that  my  lady  loves  me. 
She  did  commend  my  yellow  stockings  of  late ;  she  did 
praise  my  leg  being  cross-gartered;  and  in  this  she 
manifests  herself  to  my  love.        ***** 

I  thank  my 
stars  I  am  happy.    I  will  be  strange,  stout,  in  yellow 


MARIA  ilf> 

stockings  and  cross-gartered,  even  with  the  swiftness  of 
putting  on. 
******** 

Sir  To.  I  could  marry  this  wench  for  this  device. 

Sir  And.  So  could  I  too. 

Sir  To.  And  ask  no  other  dowry  with  her  but  such 
another  jest. 
********** 

Mar.  If  you  will  then  see  the  fruits  of  the  sport,  mark 
his  first  approach  before  my  lady :  he  will  come  to  her 
in  yellow  stockings^and  'tis  a  color  she  abhors ;  and 
cross-gartered.— a  fashion  she  detests ;  and  he  will  smile 
upon  her — which  will  now  be  so  unsuitable  to  her  dispo- 
sition, being  addicted  to  a  melancholy  as  she  is,  that  it 
cannot  but  turn  him  into  a  notable  contempt ;  if  you  will 
see  it,  follow  me. 

Sir  To.  To  the  gates  of  Tartar,  thou  most  excellent 
devil  of  wit ! 

It  will  be  seen  that  Sir  Toby  Belch  was  as  good  as  his  word, 
for  once  at  least ;  he  did  marry  the  merry  Maria,  whose  power  of 
amusing  him  had  taken  him  captive.  Yet  we  will  hope  for  gal- 
lantry even  from  so  coarse  a  lover ;  Fabian  tells  the  Lady  Olivia, 
in  final  explanation,  that 

*        *        *        *         Maria  writ 

The  letter  at  Sir  Toby's  great  importance-^- 

In  recompense  whereof,  he  hath  married  her ; 

and  we  will  amiably  believe  him  capable  of  thus  liberating  Maria 
from  a  position  of  much  embarrassment  toward  her  mistress,  with 
whose  dignity  she  had  indeed  made  something  too  free — in  order 
that  the  Lady  Olivia  might  find  it  easy  to  forgive  a  jest  from  her 
aunt  which  would  be  insufferable  from  her  waiting-woman. 


G, 


■F     ACT   6,  SO.  1 


NrwYorkJi.ApDicion   fc  C?443  & 


PORTIA. 

Portia,  mistress  of  "Belmont,"  her  hereditary  estate,  was  a 
wealthy  heiress  and  an  orphan,  who,  by  her  father's  will,  was  to 
be  bestowed  in  marriage  according  to  an  odd  conceit,  by  which, 
before  his  death,  she  had  vowed  to  abide.  Three  caskets — of  gold, 
silver,  and  lead,  respectively—were  to  be  submitted  to  the  choice 
of  the  suitor,  who  must  previously  have  sworn  never  to  marry 
should  he  fail ;  and  the  selection  of  the  one  which  contained  a  por- 
trait of  the  lady  would  constitute  him  her  husband.  The  wealth- 
iest and  most  noble  gentlemen  of  the  land,  and  many  from  afar, 
hastened  to  woo  the  fair  Portia,  the  fame  of  whose  beauty,  virtues, 
and  rich  inheritance  had  gone  abroad. 

Among  these  romantic  competitors  was  Bassanio,  a  young  Ve- 
netian of  high  rank  but  fallen  fortunes,  for  whom,  in  times  past, 
Portia  had  entertained  a  preference.  In  order  to  fit  himself  out  for 
his  journey  as  became  a  suitor  to  so  renowned  a  lady,  he  had  been 
beholden  to  his  friend  Antonio,  a  wealthy  merchant  of  Venice,  for 
a  loan  of  three  thousand  ducats ;  and  Antonio,  in  his  turn,  had 
been  compelled  to  borrow  the  money  from  Shylock,  a  Jew,  and  a 
notorious  usurer.  For  this  loan  Antonio  gave  his  bond,  to  the 
effect  that,  in  case  of  his  failing  to  pay  back  the  money  at  the  ap- 


118  PORTIA. 

pointed  time,  he  should  forfeit  a  pound  of  his  own  flesh,  to  be  cut 
from  whichever  part  of  his  body  Shylock  should  prefer  —  the 
money-lender  having  himself  dictated  this  extraordinary  stipula- 
tion, with  a  malignant  motive. 

Bassanio,  having  made  himself  acceptable  to  Portia,  determined 
finally  to  decide  his  fate  by  the  ordeal  of  the  caskets ;  and,  to  their 
mutual  joy,  he  chose  the  one  which  contained  her  picture.  But, 
even  as  they  were  receiving  the  congratulations  of  their  friends,  a 
letter  arrived  from  Antonio,  announcing  that  his  ships,  on  the  safe 
return  of  which  he  had  counted  for  the  means  of  paying  his  debt 
to  the  Jew,  had  been  wrecked,  and  that  he  was  therefore  about  to 
submit  to  the  cruel  alternative  prescribed  in  the  bond.  The  high- 
spirited  Portia,  thus  learning  that  a  friend  of  her  affianced  husband 
was  like  to  die  for  having  assisted  him,  married  Bassanio  at  once, 
to  give  him  legal  control  over  her  possessions,  and  despatched  him 
in  all  haste  to  pay  the  Jew  and  release  Antonio. 

No  sooner,  however,  had  Bassanio  departed,  than  she  sent  a 
messenger  to  Bellario,  her  cousin  and  a  counsellor,  for  advice,  and 
his  robes — on  receiving  which,  she  and  her  waiting-woman,  JSTerissa, 
disguised  as  a  lawyer  and  his  clerk,  set  out  forthwith  for  Venice, 
where  this  extraordinary  suit  was  already  "  all  the  talk." 

Portia  arrived  just  in  time  for  the  trial ;  and  having  presented 
her  credentials  from  Bellario,  introducing  to  the  duke  the  young 
Doctor  Balthazar,  she  took  her  seat  in  court,  as  counsel  for  An- 
tonio. 

When  it  was  her  turn  to  speak,  she  began  by  offering  Shylock 
the  money,  even  thrice  the  sum ;  but  he  triumphantly  refused. 
Then  she  appealed  in  eloquent  terms  to  his  mercy  ;  and  when  that 
failed,  she  bade  him  help  himself  to  his  pound  of  flesh,  but  to  take 
heed  that  he  shed  not  a  single  drop  of  blood,  for  by  so  doing  he 
would  forfeit  all  his  estates  and  goods  to  the  State  of  Venice 


— nan 


PORTIA.  119 

This  tjnely  hit  of  the  young  doctor  was  received  with  unani- 
mous applause.  Not  only  was  Shylock  thus  baffled  in  his  murderous 
plot  for  personal  revenge,  but  for  having  conspired  against  the  life 
of  a  citizen  he  was  condemned  to  transfer  half  his  possessions  to 
Antonio,  the  other  half  to  be  confiscated  to  the  State.  But  Anto- 
nio generously  relinquished  his  share,  on  condition  that  Shylock, 
at  his  death,  should  bequeath  it  to  his  daughter  Jessica,  whom  he 
had  disinherited  for  having  married  Lorenzo,  a  Christian,  and 
friend  of  Bassanio. 

Portia  returned  home  in  time  to  welcome  Bassanio  and  Anto* 
nio ;  there,  in  the  midst  of  the  general  rejoicing,  she  confessed  her 
part  in  the  happy  result,  and  there  were  no  bounds  to  the  "  tender 
joy  that  filled  the  hearts  of  those  who  went  to  rest  in  Belmont!" 


Portia  is  distinguished  by  a  patrician  elegance  of  person  and 
presence,  which  is  so  innately  her  own  that  it  depends  but  little 
for  its  effect  on  the  aristocratic  pretension  of  her  surroundings. 
Although  far  from  popular — her  reputation  for  extraordinary  men- 
tal endowments  being  sufficient  to  constitute  a  formidable  obstacle 
to  public  favor — she  is  one  of  the  most  delightful  of  Shakspeare's 
women.  Her  intellectual  quality  is  indeed  marked ;  but  that  can 
never  render  a  woman  less  lovable,  when,  as  in  Portia's  case,  it  is 
subordinate  to  the  affections.  Schlegel,  regarding  her  from  a 
purely  critical  point  of  view,  pronounces  her  "clever;"  and  al* 
though  Mrs.  Jameson  protests  against  the  application  of  so  dubious 
an  epithet  to  this  "  heavenly  compound  of  talent,  feeling,  wisdom, 
beauty,  and  gentleness,"  we  must  confess  that  to  us  it  seems  well 
chosen.  "Clever"  does  not,  indeed,  imply  the  possession  of  illus- 
trious powers ;  but  it  does  signify  that  nice  "  dexterity  in  the 


120  PORTIA. 

adaptation  of  certain  faculties  to  a  certain  end  or  aim "  which  is 
eminently  graceful  and  feminine,  and  exactly  describes  the  mental 
characteristics  of  Portia,  as  most  conspicuously  displayed  in  the 
trial  scene,  wherein  her  success  is  achieved,  not  by  the  exercise  of 
inherent  wisdom,  or  an  educated  judgment,  but  by  the  merely 
clever  discovery  of  a  legal  quibble.  That  the  word  has  fallen  into 
disrepute,  from  unworthy  associations,  should  not  impair  its  legiti- 
mate value.  True,  it  does  "suggest  the  idea  of  something  we 
should  distrust  and  shrink  from,  if  not  allied  to  a  higher  nature ;" 
but  we  contend  that,  in  Portia,  cleverness  is  allied  to  a  higher  na- 
ture— to  qualities  which  are,  indeed,  scarcely  less  perfect  than  her 
fair  panegyrist  has  portrayed  them — in  a  woman  whose  "plenteous 
wit"  and  excelling  accomplishments  are  more  than  equalled  by 
her  tenderness,  her  magnanimity,  her  graceful  dignity,  and  her 
lofty  honor 

The  scene  wherein  the  happy  consummation  of  her  love  de- 
pends on  the  perilous  chance  of  her  lover's  choosing  the  casket 
which  contains  her  picture,  is  full  of  eloquent  touches.  We  may 
almost  count  the  heart-throbs  of  Portia,  as  she  pleads  to  Bassanio, 
in  such  candid  confusion  of  fear,  to  "  pause  a  day  or  two  before 
he  hazards : " 

1  pray  you,  tarry ;  pause  a  day  or  two 
Before  you  hazard ;  for,  in  choosing  wrong, 
I  lose  your  company ;  therefore,  forbear  a  while. 
There's  something  tells  me,  (hut  it  is  not  love,) 
I  would  not  lose  you  ;  and  you  know,  yourself, 
Hate  counsels  not  in  such  a  quality  ; 
But  lest  you  should  not  understand  me  well, 
(And  yet  a  maiden  hath  no  tongue  but  thought,) 
I  would  detain  you  here  some  month  or  two, 
Before  you  venture  for  me.     I  could  teach  you 
How  to  choose  right — but  then  I  am  forsworn  ; 
So  will  I  never  be  :  so  may  you  miss  me  ; 


PORTIA.  121 

But  if  you  do,  you'll  make  me  wish  a  sin — 

That  I  had  been  forsworn.    Beshrew  your  eyes  ! 

They  have  o'erlook'd  me,  and  divided  me  ; 

One  half  of  me  is  yours,  the  other  half  yours, — 

Mine  own,  I  would  say ;  but  if  mine,  then  yours — 

And  so  all  yours : 
******** 

Away  then !  I  am  lock'd  in  one  of  them  ; 
If  you  do  love  me,  you  will  find  me  out. 

Her  chaste  passion,  which  she  has  studiously  repressed  while 
thieatened  with  the  possibility  of  disappointment,  bursts  forth  in 
this  exuberance  of  joy  when  her  lover  has  indeed  won  her : 

How  all  the  other  passions  fleet  to  air — 

As  doubtful  thoughts,  and  rash-embrac'd  despair, 

And  shudd'ring  fear,  and  green-ey'd  jealousy ! 

0  Love,  be  moderate,  allay  thy  ecstasy, 

In  measure  rain  thy  joy,  scant  this  excess ; 

1  feel  too  much  thy  blessing ;  make  it  less, 
For  fear  I  surfeit ! 

But  Portia  is  surrounded  by  guests  and  attendants ;  this  is  no 
time  for  Love's  transports,  even  if  she  were  less  accustomed  to 
self-command  ;  it  is  necessary  that  she  should  formally  acknowledge 
her  future  husband ;  and  with  what  rare  tact,  excelling  dignity,  and 
love  disdaining  all  affectation  of  diffidence,  is  her  acceptance  of 
him  clothed.  We  wonder  how  any  one,  after  having  read  this 
most  womanly  speech,  dictated  by  the  simplest  emotions  of  a  lov- 
ing and  modest  heart,  can  accuse  Portia  of  affectation  or  pedantry : 

You  see  me,  lord  Bassanio,  where  I  stand, 
I,  Such  as  I  am.    Though,  for  myself  alone, 

I  would  not  be  ambitious  in  my  wish, 
To  wish  myself  much  better ;  yet,  for  you, 
I  would  be  trebled  twenty  times  myself- — 
A  thousand  times  more  fair,  ten  thousand  times 
.A  [ore  rich  ; 
16 


122  PORTIA. 

That  only  to  stand  high  on  your  account, 
I  might  in  virtues,  beauties,  livings,  friends, 
Exceed  account.     But  the  full  sum  of  me 
Is  sum  of  something ;  which,  to  term  in  gross, 
Is  an  unlesson'd  girl,  unschool'd,  unpractis'd : 
Happy  in  this — she  is  not  yet  so  old 
But  she  may  learn ;  and  happier  than  this — 
She  is  not  bred  so  dull  but  she  can  learn  ; 
Happiest  of  all  is,  that  her  gentle  spirit 
Commits  itself  to  yours  to  be  directed, 
As  from  her  lord,  her  governor,  her  king. 
Myself,  and  what  is  mine,  to  you  and  yours 
Is  now  converted ;  but  now  I  was  the  lord 
Of  this  fair  mansion,  master  of  my  servants, 
Queen  o'er  myself;  and  even  now,  but  now, 
This  house,  these  servants,  and  this  same  myself, 
Are  yours,  my  lord  ;  I  give  them  with  this  ring. 

For  the  trial  scene,  that  "master-piece  of  dramatic  skill,"  as 
so  much  of  its  effect  depends  upon  the  by-play,  we  resign  our 
reader  to  the  text — except  for  Portia's  famous  appeal  to  Shylock, 
which,  apart  from  its  circumstantial  force,  stands  alone,  one  of  the 
most  beautiful  of  the  "  beauties  of  Shakspeare  : " 

JPor.  The  quality  of  mercy  is  not  strain' d  ; 
It  droppeth,  as  the  gentle  rain  from  heaven 
Upon  the  place  beneath ;  it  is  twice  bless'd  : 
It  blesseth  him  that  gives,  and  him  that  takes. 
'Tis  mightiest  in  the  mightiest ;  it  becomes 
The  throned  monarch  better  than  his  crown  ; 
His  sceptre  shows  the  force  of  temporal  power, 
The  attribute  to  awe  and  majesty, 
Wherein  doth  sit  the  dread  and  fear  of  kings  ; 
But  mercy  is  above  this  sceptred  sway — 
It  is  enthroned  in  the  hearts  of  kings — 
It  is  an  attribute  to  God  himself; 
And  earthly  power  doth  then  show  likest  God's 
When  mercy  seasons  justice.    Therefore,  Jew, 
Though  justice  be  thy  plea,  consider  tins — 


PORTIA.  125 

That  in  the  course  of  justice  none  of  us 
Should  see  salvation.    We  do  pray  for  mercy ; 
And  that  same  prayer  doth  teach  us  all  to  render 
The  deeds  of  mercy. 

Portia's  wit,  guiltless  of  malice,  irreverence,  or  vulgar  effort  at 
display,  is  as  fresh,  hopeful,  and  light-hearted  as  her  own  elastic 
spirit.  Her  conversation  with  her  maid,  Nerissa,  about  the  lovers 
who  have  come  a-wooing,  is  incomparably  lively  and  satirical,  yet 
perfectly  good-humored ;  and  not  a  few  of  her  happy  sallies  have 
become  proverbial.  Of  these  we  give  but  two :  the  first  a  por- 
trait, as  true  of  the  subject  to-day  as  when  Portia  sketched  it ;  the 
second  a  titbit  of  moral  philosophy,  that  will  continue  to  be 
relished  as  long  as  a  moral  finger-post  is  left  in  the  land : 

*        *        *        *        I'll  hold  thee  any  wager, 

When  we  are  both  accouter'd  like  young  men, 

I'll  prove  the  prettier  fellow  of  the  two, 

And  wear  my  dagger  with  the  braver  grace  ; 

And  speak,  between  the  change  of  man  and  boy, 

With  a  reed  voice ;  and  turn  two  mincing  steps 

Into  a  manly  stride  ;  and  speak  of  frays, 

Like  a  fine  bragging  youth ;  and  tell  quaint  lies — 

How  honorable  ladies  sought  my  love, 

Which  I  denying,  they  fell  sick  and  died ; 

I  could  not  do  with  all.    Then  I'll  repent, 

And  wish,  for  all  that,  that  I  had  not  kill'd  them; 

And  twenty  of  these  puny  lies  I'll  tell, 

That  men  should  swear  I  have  discontinued  school 

Above  a  twelvemonth  : — I  have  within  my  mind 

A  thousand  raw  tricks  of  these  bragging  Jacks, 

Which  I  will  practise. 

If  to  do  were  as  easy  as  to  know  what  were  good  to 
do,  chapels  had  been  churches,  and  poor  men's  cottages 
princes'  palaces.     It  is  a  good  divine  that  follows  his 


124  PORTIA. 

own  instructions :  I  can  easier  teach  twenty  what  were 
good  to  be  done,  than  be  one  of  the  twenty  to  follow 
mine  own  teaching. 

As  to  her  beauty,  her  goodness,  and  the  fame  of  both — could 
any  one  doubt — we  find  abundant  testimony  in  the  following 
passages : 

In  Belmont  is  a  lady  richly  left ; 

And  she  is  fair,  and,  fairer  than  that  word, 

Of  wondrous  virtues ; 

*  *        *         *         %         *         *         * 

Her  name  is  Portia — nothing  undervalued 
To  Cato's  daughter,  Brutus'  Portia. 
Nor  is  the  wide  world  ignorant  of  her  worth ; 
For  the  four  winds  blow  in  from  every  coast 
Renowned  suitors  ;  and  her  sunny  locks 
Hang  on  her  temples  like  a  golden  fleece — 
Which  makes  her  seat  of  Belmont  Colchos'  strand, 
And  many  Jasons  come  in  quest  of  her. 

*  *         *         *        All  the  world  desires  her : 
From  the  four  corners  of  the  earth  they  come, 
To  kiss  this  shrine,  this  mortal  breathing  saint. 
The  Hyrcanian  deserts,  and  the  vasty  wilds 

Of  wide  Arabia,  are  as  through-fares  now, 
For  princes  to  come  view  fair  Portia ;    • 
The  wat'ry  kingdom,  whose  ambitious  head 
Spits  in  the  face  of  heaven,  is  no  bar 
To  stop  the  foreign  spirits ;  but  they  come, 
As  o'er  a  brook,  to  see  fair  Portia. 

*  *        *        *        *        *        *        * 

Why,  if  two  gods  should  play  some  heavenly  match, 
And  on  the  wager  lay  two  earthly  women, 
And  Portia  one,  there  must  be  something  else 
Pawn'd  with  the  other  ;  for  the  poor  rude  world 
Hath  not  her  fellow. 


•'    sc    s 


JESSICA. 

To  our  mind,  Jessica,  Shylock's  "  one  fair  daughter,"  is,  in  her 
filial  aspect,  neither  a  pleasing  nor  a  truthful  picture ;  though  it 
must  be  acknowledged  that  her  derelictions  from  duty  are  com- 
mitted under  extenuating  circumstances. 

It  is  not  for  deceiving  her  father,  so  far  as  her  love-affair 
with  Lorenzo  is  concerned,  that  we  dislike  her ;  nor  for  eloping 
from  a  home  which,  by  his  graceless  parsimony,  and  cold,  forbid- 
ding harshness,  he  had  made  a  "  hell "  to  her ;  but  for  the  stealing 
of  the  ducats  and  the  jewels — above  all,  the  trading  of  a  turquoise 
ring,  her  mother's  love-gift  to  her  father,  for  a  monkey — we  can 
find  no  excuse,  no  palliation,  in  the  best-natured  virtue ;  theft  is 
too  mean  a  crime  to  be  easily  forgiven,  especially  in  a  heroine. 

Mrs.  Jameson  says  of  Jessica,  that  she  has  "  a  rich  tinge  of 
Orientalism  shed  over  her,  worthy  her  Eastern  origin:"  to  us  she 
betrays  her  race  only  in  her  characteristic  love  of  gold,  to  which, 
amorous  and  romantic  as  she  is,  she  can  give  careful  heed,  even  in 
the  very  act  of  eloping  with  her  lover,  by  night  and  in  disguise : 

Here,  catch  this  casket ;  it  is  worth  the  pains. 
******** 

I  will  make  fast  the  doors,  and  gild  myself 

With  some  more  ducats,  and  be  with  you  straight. 


12G  JESSICA. 

Lor.        *        *        *        *        she  hath  directed 
How  I  shall  take  her  from  her  father's  house — 
What  gold,  and  jewels,  she  is  furnish'd  with. 

Fancy  Juliet,  Silvia,  or  even  little  Anne  Page,  the  two  latter 
veritable  "  run-aways  "  from  the  paternal  roof,  damaging  their  fa- 
ther's coffers  as  well  as  his  authority  ! 

As  for  Jessica's  conversion  to  the  Christian  religion,  we  put  no 
faith  in  it :  it  is  plain  that  she  is  as  indifferent  to  the  faith  of  her 
husband  as  she  was  to  that  of  her  father ;  she  would  just  as  readily 
have  become  a  Mohammedan,  if  her  Lorenzo  had  sworn  by  Allah 
and  the  Prophet. 

Once  married,  however,  Jessica  assumes  a  more  amiable  aspect 
— her  conjugal  tenderness  is  very  beautiful ;  and  the  garden  scene 
at  Belmont,  during  the  honeymoon  of  the  young  couple,  is  soulful 
enough  to  cover  a  multitude  of  meannesses ;  Lorenzo  is  the  most 
poetic  of  lovers,  and  for  his  sake  we  can  almost  pardon  the  epi- 
sode of  the  ducats : 

Lor.  The  moon  shines  bright : — In  such  a  night  as  this, 
"When  the  sweet  wind  did  gently  kiss  the  trees, 
And  they  did  make  no  noise — in  such  a  night, 
Troilus,  methinks,  mounted  the  Trojan  walls, 
And  sigh'd  his  soul  toward  the  Grecian  tents, 
Where  Cressid  lay  that  night. 

Jes.  In  such  a  night, 

Did  Thisbe  fearfully  o'ertrip  the  dew  ; 
And  saw  the  lion's  shadow  ere  himself, 
And  ran  dismay' d  away. 

Lor.  In  such  a  night, 

Stood  Dido  with  a  willow  in  her  hand 
Upon  the  wild  sea-banks,  and  wav'd  her  love 
To  come  again  to  Carthage. 

Jes.  In  such  a  night, 

Medea  gather' d  the  enchanted  herbs 
That  did  renew  old  iEson. 


JESSICA.  12? 


Lor.  In  such  a  night, 

Did  Jessica  steal  from  the  wealthy  Jew ; 
And  with  an  unthrift  love  did  run  from  Venice, 
As  far  as  Belmont. 

Jes.  And  in  such  a  night, 

Did  young  Lorenzo  swear  he  lov'd  her  well — 
Stealing  her  soul  with  many  vows  of  faith, 
And  ne'er  a  true  one. 

Lor.  And  in  such  a  night, 

Did  pretty  Jessica,  like  a  little  shrew, 

Slander  her  love,  and  he  forgave  it  her. 
******** 

How  sweet  the  moon-light  sleeps  upon  this  bank ! 
Here  will  we  sit,  and  let  the  sounds  of  music 
Creep  in  our  ears ;  soft  stillness,  and  the  night, 
Become  the  touches  of  sweet  harmony. 
Sit,  Jessica :  Look  how  the  floor  of  heaven 
Is  thick  inlaid  with  patines  of  bright  gold ! 
There's  not  the  smallest  orb  which  thou  behold'st 
But  in  his  motion  like  an  angel  sings, 
Still  quiring  to  the  young-ey'd  cherubins : 
Such  harmony  is  in  immortal  souls ; 
But  whilst  this  muddy  vesture  of  decay 
Doth  grossly  close  it  in,  we  cannot  hear  it. 


'-' ./. ' 


'^^ 


murine's    ■CAl-H.JLiT  -t.SC   3. 


PERDITA. 

Perdita,  daughter  of  Leontes,  king  of  Sicily,  and  his  queen, 
the  beautiful  and  excellent  Hermione,  was  born  in  a  prison,  where- 
in her  cruel  father,  in  a  fit  of  jealous  rage,  had  confined  his  wife 
some  time  before  the  birth  of  Perdita. 

Leontes,  suspecting  Hermione  of  infidelity  with  his  guest  Polix- 
enes,  king  of  Bohemia,  ordered  Camillo,  one  of  his  lords,  to  poison 
the  latter.  Camillo,  however,  believing  his  royal  mistress  to  be 
most  foully  slandered,  pretended  to  acquiesce  in  her  husband's 
treacherous  plot,  only  to  disclose  it  to  Polixenes ;  whereupon  they 
took  flight  together  to  Bohemia.  It  was  at  this  juncture  that  Her- 
mione was  cast  into  prison,  where  she  eventually  gave  birth  to  a 
princess. 

Paulina,  a  brave  friend  of  the  queen's,  bore  the  babe  to  its 
father,  hoping  thus  to  touch  his  heart,  and  avert  his  displeasure  from 
the  unhappy  mother.  But  her  devoted  mission  failed  miserably ; 
the  king  commanded  Antigonus,  another  of  his  lords,  to  take  the 
child  out  to  sea,  and  leave  it  to  perish  on  some  desolate  shore. 

This  time  his  orders  were  fulfilled :  Antigonus  left  the  babe, 
all  swaddled  in  rich  robes  and  bedecked  with  jewels,  on  a  lonely 
"  fishing  coast "  of  Bohemia,  whither  a  storm  had  driven  the  ship — 
17 


130  PER  D  IT  A. 

taking  the  precaution,  however,  of  pinning  a  paper  to  the  baby's 
mantle,  with  the  name,  Perdita,  written  thereon,  and  a  line  or  two 
dimly  significant  of  its  illustrious  birth.  A  humane  shepherd  found 
the  poor  little  innocent,  and  took  it  home  to  his  wife,  who  nursed 
it  tenderly;  his  extreme  poverty,  dazzled  by  the  rare  jewels, 
induced  him  to  keep  secret  the  manner  in  which  he  found  the 
child,  and  she  was  reared  in  every  respect  as  his  own  daughter. 

Shakspeare  gives  proof  of  his  loyal  belief  in  "  blood,"  in  the 
sequel  of  this  pretty  tale.  The  royal  foundling,  reared  in  a  shep- 
herd's hut,  receiving  almost  none  of  the  graces  of  education,  queen 
only  over  flocks  and  herds,  lived  and  moved  a  princess. 

The  young  Prince  Florizel,  only  son  of  Polixenes,  hunting  one 
day  near  the  shepherd's  dwelling,  saw  the  charming  Perdita,  and 
became  desperately,  but  in  all  honor,  enamoured  of  her  high-born 
beauty.  Under  an  assumed  name,  and  in  the  guise  of  a  simple 
gentleman,  he  paid  court  to  her  at  once. 

Polixenes,  remarking  Florizel's  frequent  absence  from  court, 
set  spies  on  the  prince,  who  soon  apprised  him  of  his  son's  love  for 
the  fair  shepherdess.  Forthwith,  he  and  Camillo  visited  in  dis- 
guise the  house  of  the  old  shepherd  during  the  merry-making  of 
sheep-shearing.  Here  the  king  discovered  himself  to  his  son,  load- 
ed him  with  reproaches,  and  commanded  Perdita  never  again  to 
receive  him,  on  pain  of  her  own  and  her  father's  death. 

Camillo,  anxious  to  return  to  his  native  land,  rescued  the  lovers 
from  the  wrath  of  Polixenes,  and  accompanied  them  to  the  Sicilian 
court,  to  solicit  Leontes'  influence  and  protection  till  Polixenes 
should  consent  to  their  union. 

Leontes,  full  of  remorse  for  the  cruelty  which,  he  supposed,  had 
caused  the  death  of  his  well-beloved  queen,  joyfully  received  Ca- 
millo back  again  to  his  favor,  and  made  the  young  people  welcome. 
The  marvellous  resemblance  of  Perdita  to  Hermione  caused  his 


PERDITA.  131 

heart  to  bleed  afresh ;  and  his  self-accusing  ejaculations  aroused 
the  suspicions  of  the  old  shepherd,  who  produced  the  proofs  of 
Perdita's  identity  with  the  deserted  babe. 

Paulina,  convinced  of  Leontes'  repentance,  invited  him  to  her 
house  to  see  a  cunning  statue  from  the  hand  of  a  great  master. 
The  statue  was  Hermione  herself,  whom,  to  protect  her,  Paulina 
had  declared  dead.  Thus,  a  faithful  wife  was  restored  to  the  arms 
of  her  penitent  husband,  and  the  shepherd's  foundling  found  a 
tender  mother  in  the  virtuous  queen. 

Polixenes  followed  the  fugitives  to  Sicily  ;  but  there  no  longer 
existed  any  objection,  personal  or  political,  to  the  marriage  of  the 
Bohemian  prince  to  the  heiress  of  the  throne  of  "Sicily,  and  their 
union  crowned  the  general  rejoicing. 


Though  the  character  of  Perdita  is  quite  subordinate  to  that 
of  Hermione,  the  heroine  proper  of  "  The  Winter's  Tale,"  it  is, 
nevertheless,  a  carefully  finished  picture  in  every  detail.  Its  deli- 
cate coloring  is  suggestive  rather  than  simply  descriptive,  its  subtile 
poetry  conveyed  to  the  beholder  by  master  touches ;  beside  the 
glowing,  life-size  portraits  of  Juliet,  Portia,  and  Lady  Macbeth, 
this  unique  miniature  gem  sparkles  half  concealed,  yet  full  of  ex- 
quisite beauties.  Perdita,  perhaps,  of  all  Shakspeare's  heroines,  is 
the  completest  exemplification  of  the  intuitive  lady,  whose  inbred 
daintiness  no  accident  of  life  can  affect. 

Frequent  mention  is  made  of  her  rare  personal  beauty,  and  not 
by  her  lov-er  only.  Florizel  says  to  her,  touching  her  gay  holiday 
attire  at  the  sheep-shearing : 

These,  your  unusual  weeds,  to  each  part  of  you 
Do  give  a  life — no  shepherdess,  hut  Flora 


132  PERDITA. 

Peering  in  April's  front ;  this,  your  sheep-shearing, 
Is  as  a  meeting  of  the  petty  gods, 
And  you  the  queen  on't. 

This  rhapsody,  too,  is  plainly  something  more  than  the  mere 
extravagance  of  an  ardent  lover : 

What  you  do 
Still  betters  what  is  done.    When  you  speak,  sweet, 
Pd  have  you  do  it  ever.     When  you  sing, 
Pd  have  you  "buy  and  sell  so,  so  give  alms, 
Pray  so,  and  for  the  ordering  of  your  affairs 
To  sing  them  too.     When  you  do  dance,  I  wish  you 
A  wave  o'  the  sea,  that  you  might  ever  do 
Nothing  but  that — move  still,  still  so,  and  own 
No  other  function. 

*  *     *    Were  I  crown'd  the  most  imperial  monarch, 

*  *     *    Were  I  the  fairest  youth 

That  ever  made  eye  swerve,  had  force  and  knowledge 
More  than  was  ever  man's,  I  would  not  prize  them 
Without  her  love  :  for  her  employ  them  all, 
Commend  them,  and  condemn  them  to  her  service, 
Or  to  their  own  perdition  ! 

Polixenes  himself  pays  an  involuntary  tribute  to  her  charms  . 

This  is  the  prettiest  low-born  lass  that  ever 
Ran  on  the  greensward  ;  nothing  she  does,  or  seems, 
But  smacks  of  something  greater  than  herself, 
Too  noble  for  this  place. 

To  which  Camillo  replies : 

*  *    *     *       Good  sooth,  she  is 
The  queen  of  curds  and  cream. 

Arrived  with  Florizel  at  the  Sicilian  court,  one  of  the  gentle- 
men says  of  her : 


PERDITA.  133 

*  *    *       The  most  peerless  piece  of  earth,  I  think, 
That  e'er  the  sun  shone  bright  on. 

And  another : 

*  *    *    *       rp^  js  sucn  a  creature, 
Would  she  begin  a  sect,  might  quench  the  zeal 
Of  all  professors  else — make  proselytes 

Of  who  she  but  bid  follow. 

Women  will  love  her,  that  she  is  a  woman 
More  worth  than  any  man ;  men,  that  she  is 
The  rarest  of  all  women. 

In  Perdita's  well  known  and  oft-quoted  greeting  to  the  stranger- 
guests  at  the  sheep-shearing,  we  have  a  fine  example  of  her  innate 
courtesy,  as  well  as  of  the  poetic  delicacy  of  her  fancy : 

*****       Reverend  sirs, 
For  you  there's  rosemary  and  rue  ;  these  keep 
Seeming  and  savor,  all  the  winter  long ; 
Grace  and  remembrance  be  to  you  both, 
And  welcome  to  our  shearing ! 

Here's  flowers  for  you  : 
Hot  lavender,  mints,  savory,  marjoram, 
The  marigold,  that  goes  to  bed  with  the  sun, 
And  with  him  rises,  weeping  :  these  are  flowers 
Of  middle  summer,  and  I  think  they  are  given 
To  men  of  middle  age.    You  are  very  welcome ! 

*  *     *       Now,  my  fairest  friend, 

I  would  I  had  some  flowers  o'  the  spring  that  might 

Become  your  time  of  day.    ****** 

*****     q  Proserpina ! 

For  the  flowers  now  that,  frighted,  thou  let'st  fall 

From  Dis's  wagon !  daffodils, 

That  come  before  the  swallow  dares,  and  take 

The  winds  of  March  with  beauty ;  violets  dim, 

But  sweeter  than  the  lids  of  Juno's  eyes, 

Or  Cytherea's  breath ;  pale  primroses, 


134  PERDITA. 

That  die  unmarried,  ere  they  can  behold 
Bright  Phoebus  in  his  strength — a  malady 
Most  incident  to  maids ;  bold  oxlips,  and 
The  crown  imperial ;  lilies  of  all  kinds, 
The  flower-de-luce  being  one  !     O,  these  I  lack, 
To  make  you  garlands  of- — and,  my  sweet  friend, 
To  strew  him  o'er  and  o'er. 

Flor.  What?  like  a  corse? 

JPerd.  No,  like  a  bank,  for  love  to  lie  and  play  on ; 
Not  like  a  corse — or  if,  not  to  be  buried, 
But  quick,  and  in  mine  arms ! 

The  simple  dignity  and  exquisite  tenderness  of  Perdita  are 
beautifully  portrayed  in  one  or  two  addresses  to  Florizel  after  his 
royal  father  has  commanded  them  to  part  forever : 

Even  here  undone ! 
I  was  not  much  afeard ;  for  once  or  twice 
I  was  about  to  speak,  and  tell  him  plainly, 
The  self-same  sun  that  shines  upon  his  court 
Hides  not  his  visage  from  our  cottage,  but 
Looks  on  alike.    Wilt  please  you,  sir,  begone  ? 
I  told  you  what  would  come  of  this.    'Beseech  you, 
Of  your  own  state  take  care  :  this  dream  of  mine — 
Being  now  awake,  I'll  queen  it  no  inch  further, 
But  milk  my  ewes,  and  weep. 


HERMIONE. 

Critically  (though  not  popularly)  considered,  Hermione  must 
ever  occupy  a  position  superior  to  Perdita  in  the  charming  story 
to  which  both  contribute  so  much  beauty. 

Endowed  with  every  virtue  that  helps  to  complete  the  perfect 
woman,  Hermione  is  distinguished  by  her  illustrious  resignation 
under  the  most  grievous  wrongs  that  can  befall  an  honored  queen, 
and  a  devoted  wife.  Repudiated  by  her  husband  for  senseless  sus- 
picions of  her  chastity,  conceived  without  an  excuse  of  foundation ; 
thrown  into  prison,  to  give  birth  to  a  poor  little  princess ;  her 
first-born  son  dying  of  grief  for  his  mother's  disgrace ;  her  infant 
condemned  to  death  by  its  unnatural  father ;  herself  put  to  public 
shame — a  second  Grissel,  Hermione  endures  all  with  scarce  a  mur- 
mur ;  not  so  much  from  patient  love,  however,  as  from  an  indomi- 
table fortitude,  a  grand  pride  in  her  conscious  innocence,  which  has 
all  the  exalting  effect  of  martyrdom. 

To  Hermione,  daughter  of  an  emperor,  wife  to  a  king,  and 
mother  of  a  "hopeful  prince,"  a  serene,  majestic  composure  be- 
longs, as  a  birthright;  and  her  soul  is  full  of  a  repose  as  imper- 
turbable as  her  bearing  is  royal.  She  has  no  passions :  no  violent 
demonstrations,  no  tears  nor  reproaches,  resent  her  lord's  injustice ; 


136  HERMIONE. 

she  is  degraded,  but  in  her  ignominy  she  is  still  a  queen.  Absorb- 
ing as  are  her  affections  as  wife  and  mother,  the  blow  they  suffer 
appears  on  the  surface  in  no  more  accusing  shape  than  a  sublime, 
heroic  patience  ;  charged  openly  with  adultery  and  treason,  in  the 
midst  of  the  court  where  she  has  reigned  a  beloved  and  honored 
sovereign,  her  gracious  lips  can  consent  to  frame  no  answer  more 
ungentle  than  these  touching  words  : 

How  will  this  grieve  you, 
When  you  shall  come  to  clearer  knowledge,  that 
You  thus  have  publish'd  me  ?     Gentle  my  lord, 
You  scarce  can  right  me  throughly  then,  to  say 
You  did  mistake. 

There's  some  ill  planet  reigns ; 
I  must  be  patient,  till  the  heavens  look 
With  an  aspect  more  favorable. — Good  my  lords, 
I  am  not  prone  to  weeping,  as  our  sex 
Commonly  are — the  want  of  which  vain  dew, 
Perchance,  shall  dry  your  pities  ;  but  I  have 
That  honorable  grief,  lodg'd  here,  which  burns 
Worse  than  tears  drown. 

Yet,  though  she  can  hide  her  bleeding  heart  away  under  the 
pall  of  a  sorrow  too  grave  for  tears,  though  she  can  mourn  her 
dearest  loves  as  dead  and  make  no  sign,  she  may  not  thus  proudly 
permit  the  niching  of  her  good  name — that  inestimable  dowry  be- 
stowed upon  her  by  illustrious  ancestors,  a  precious  heritage  to  be 
transmitted  to  her  children's  children ;  and  we  feel  that  it  is  only 
in  obedience  to  this  lofty  sense  of  duty  that  she  condescends  to 
justify  herself — that  she  "stands  to  prate  and  talk  before  who 
please  to  come  and  hear." 

By  a  woman  of  common  temper  this  accusation  of  infidelity 
would  have  been  silently  spurned,  in  the  face  of  its  terrible  conse- 


II  E  R  M  I  O  N  E .  137 

quences — the  loss  of  her  husband's  love  and  the  death  of  her 
children  ;  but  to  the  spotless  majesty  of  Hermione's  soul  a  charge 
of  dishonor,  which  she  is  not  able  to  disprove,  is  the  very  consum- 
mation of  calamity ;  all  the  rest  is  but  sorrow — this  is  shame. 

The  court  scene,  in  the  third  act,  of  itself  suffices  to  afford  us  a 
truthful  conception  of  Hermione's  character.  At  a  time  when, 
from  merely  physical  causes,  it  would  be  natural  to  look  for  emo- 
tion even  in  her,  this  unhappy  queen  is  as  calm  as  if  she  were  but 
a  spectator,  not  the  arraigned  culprit,  of  the  imposing  concourse 
assembled  to  pronounce  her  sentence  ;  her  "  nerves  "  are  adamant ; 
her  whole  bearing  bespeaks  the  "  queen  o'er  herself."  Only  when 
the  oracle  has  been  flouted  which  declared  her  chaste,  and  the 
death  of  her  son  is  announced,  does  the  heroic  lady  sink  under  her 
weight  of  woes. 

Her  appeal,  not  for  pity  nor  for  life,  but  for  the  re-establish- 
-ment  t>f  her  honor,  is  a  model  of  dignified  eloquence : 


********** 

*****        You,  my  lord,  best  know, 

(Who  least  will  seem  to  do  so,)  my  past  life 

Hath  been  as  continent,  as  chaste,  as  true, 

As  I  am  now  unhappy — which  is  more 

Than  history  can  pattern,  though  devis'd, 

And  play'd,  to  take  spectators  ;  For  behold  me, — 

A  fellow  of  the  royal  bed,  which  owe 

A  moiety  of  the  throne,  a  great  king's  daughter, 

The  mother  to  a  hopeful  prince, — here  standing, 

To  prate  and  talk  for  life  and  honor  'fore 

"Who  please  to  come  and  hear.     For  life,  I  prize  it, 

As  I  weigh  grief,  which  I  would  spare ;  for  honor — 

'Tis  a  derivative  from  me  to  mine, 

And  only  that  I  stand  for. 

********* 

Sir,  spare  your  threats ; 
The  bug,  which  you  would  fright  me  with,  I  seek. 
18 


138  HER  MI  ONE. 

To  me  can  life  be  no  commodity : 

The  crown  and  comfort  of  my  life,  your  favor, 

I  do  give  lost — for  I  do  feel  it  gone," 

But  know  not  how  it  went ;  my  second  joy, 

And  first-fruits  of  my  body,  from  his  presence 

I  am  barr'd,  like  one  infectious ;  my  third  comfort, 

Star'd  most  unluckily,  is  from  my  breast, 

The  innocent  milk  in  its  most  innocent  mouth, 

Haled  out  to  murder ;  myself  on  every  post 

Proclaim'd  a  strumpet — with  immodest  hatred, 

The  child-bed  privilege  denied,  which  'longs 

To  women  of  all  fashion  ;  lastly,  hurried 

Here  to  this  place,  i'  the  open  air,  before 

I  have  got  strength  of  limit.     Now,  my  liege, 

Tell  me  what  blessings  I  have  here,  alive, 

That  I  should  fear  to  die  ?     Therefore,  proceed  ; 

But  yet  hear  this  :  mistake  me  not ; No  !  life, 

I  prize  it  not  a  straw  ; — but  for  mine  honor, 
(Which  I  would  free,)  if  I  shall  be  condemn'd 
Upon  surmises — all  proofs  sleeping  else, 
But  what  your  jealousies  awake — I  tell  you 
'Tis  rigor,  and  not  law. 

That  Hermione  was  a  beautiful  woman,  of  the  regal,  Juno-like 
type,  is  surely  established  by  many  passages  let  fall  at  random 
through  the  text.  When  a  gentleman  of  the  court  enthusiastically 
extols  Perdita's  beauty,  Paulina,  champion  of  her  mistress's  memory 
as  she  ever  has  been  zealous  in  her  service,  exclaims : 

O  Hermione, 
As  every  present  time  doth  boast  itself 
Above  a  better  gone,  so  must  thy  grave 
Give  way  to  what's  seen  now.     Sir,  you  yourself 
Have  said,  and  writ  so,  (but  your  writing  now 
Is  colder  than  that  theme,)  She  had  not  been, 
-Nor  was  not  to  be,  equaPd; — thus  your  verse 
Flow'd  with  her  beauty  once  ;  'tis  shrewdly  ebb'd, 
To  say  you  have  seen  a  better. 
********* 


HERMIONE.  139 

Leon.                                         Good  Paulina, — 
Who  hast  the  memory  of  Hermione, 
I  know,  in  honor, — O,  that  ever  I 
Had  sqnar'd  me  to  thy  counsel ! — then,  even  now, 
I  might  have  look'd  upon  my  queen's  full  eyes, 
Have  taken  treasure  from  her  lips, 

Paul.  And  left  them 

More  rich,  for  what  they  yielded. 

Leon.  Stars,  very  stars, 

And  all  eyes  else  dead  coals ! — fear  thou  no  wife ; 
I'll  have  no  wife,  Paulina. 

And  that  Hermione  was  as  excellent  as  she  was  beautiful  is  as 
well  attested  by  the  enduring  respect  and  affection  with  which  she 
is  held  in  remembrance  by  her  servants,  and  above  all  by  her  hus- 
band, One  of  his  courtiers  urges  Leontes  to  marry — "  to  bless  the 
bed  of  majesty  again  with  a  sweet  fellow  to 't ;"  but  the  wretched 
king  can  bear  to  think  of  no  wife,  save  the  one  "  done  to  death  by 
sland'i  ous  tongues  : " 

Whilst  I  remember 
Her,  and  her  virtues,  I  cannot  forget 
My  blemishes  in  them,  and  so  still  think  of 
The  wrong  I  did  myself:  which  was  so  much, 
That  heirless  it  hath  made  my  kingdom,  and 
Destroy'd  the  sweet'st  companion  that  e'er  man 
Bred  his  hopes  out  of. 

Paul.  True,  too  true,  my  lord : 

If,  one  by  one,  you  wedded  all  the  world — 
Or,  from  the  all  that  are  took  something  good, 
To  make  a  perfect  woman — she  you  kill'd 
Would  be  unparallel'd. 

Leon.  I  think  so.     Kill'd  ! 

She  I  kill'd  ?     I  did  so  ;  but  thou  strik'st  me 
Sorely,  to  say  I  did  ;  it  is  as  bitter 
Upon  thy  tongue  as  in  my  thought. 


140  HERMIONE. 

Paul.  There  is  none  worthy, 

Respecting  her  that's  gone. 

Leon.  Thou  speak'st  truth : 

No  more  such  wives  ;  therefore,  no  wife. 

The  final,  or  "  statue,"  scene — in  which,  after  sixteen  years  of 
strict  seclusion,  she  is  restored  to  her  husband,  and  the  daughter 
who  had  been  miraculously  preserved  to  bless  her  patient  heart — ■ 
is  one  of  the  most  effective  in  dramatic  story. 

If  any  thing  could  persuade  us  to  forgive  Leontes  his  unworthy 
doubts  of  such  a  woman  as  Hermione,  it  would  be  the  sincere  emo- 
tion he  displays  whilst  gazing  on  what  he  believes  to  be  the  won 
drous  statue  of  his  wife  : 

Her  natural  posture  ! — 
Chide  me,  dear  stone,  that  I  may  say,  indeed, 
Thou  art  Hermione  ;  or,  rather,  thou  art  she 
In  thy  not  chiding ;  for  she  was  as  tender 
As  infancy  and  grace. — But  yet,  Paulina, 
Hermione  was  not  so  much  wrinkled,  nothing 
So  aged,  as  this  seems. 

Pol.  O,  not  by  much. 

Paul.  So  much  the  more  our  carver's  excellence, 
Which  lets  go  by  some  sixteen  years,  and  makes  her 
As  she  liv'd  now. 

Leon.  As  now  she  might  have  done — 

So  much  to  my  good  comfort,  as  it  is 
Now  piercing  to  my  soul.     O,  thus  she  stood, 
Even  with  such  life  of  majesty,  (warm  life, 
As  now  it  coldly  stands,)  when  first  I  woo'd  her  ! 
*      I  am  asham'd :  Does  not  the  stone  rebuke  me, 
For  being  more  stone  than  it  ? — O,  royal  piece, 
There's  magic  in  thy  majesty,  which  has 
My  evils  conjur'd  to  remembrance,  and 
From  thy  admiring  daughter  took  the  spirits, 
Standing  like  stone  with  thee  ! 


HERMIONE.  141 

Leon.  Do  not  draw  the  curtain. 

Paul.  No  longer  shall  you  gaze  on 't,  lest  your  fancy 
May  think  anon  it  moves. 

Leon.  Let  be,  let  be  ! 

Would  I  were  dead,  but  that,  methinks,  already — 
What  was  he,  that  did  make  it  ? — See,  my  lord, 
Would  you  not  deem  it  breath'd  ?  and  that  those  veins 
Did  verily  bear  blood  ? 

Pol.  Masterly  done ! 

The  very  life  seems  warm  upon  her  lip. 

Leon.  The  fixture  of  her  eye  has  motion  in 't, 
As  we  are  mock'd  with  art. 

Paul.  I'll  draw  the  curtain  ; 

My  lord's  almost  so  far  transported  that 
He'll  think  anon  it  lives. 

Leon.  O  sweet  Paulina, 

Make  me  to  think  so  twenty  years  together ; 
No  settled  senses  of  the  world  can  match 
The  pleasure  of  that  madness.    Let  't  alone. 

Paul.  I  am  sorry,  sir,  I  have  thus  far  stir'd  you ;  but 
I  could  afflict  you  further. 

Leon.  Do,  Paulina ; 

For  this  affliction  has  a  taste  as  sweet 
As  any  cordial  comfort. — Still,  methinks, 
There  is  an  air  comes  from  her :  What  fine  chisel 
Could  ever  yet  cut  breath  ?  Let  no  man  mock  me — 
For  I  will  kiss  her. 

Paul.  Good  my  lord,  forbear : 

The  ruddiness  upon  her  Up  is  wet ; 
You'll  mar  it,  if  you  kiss  it — stain  your  own 
With  oily  painting :  Shall  I  draw  the  curtain  ? 

Leon.  No,  not  these  twenty  years. 


MISTRESS    FORD 

Mistress  Alice  Ford  is  one  of  the  two  "  Merry  Wives  of 
Windsor"  whose  mischievous  pranks  constitute  the  material  for 
that  very  amusing,  but  somewhat  too  coarse,  comedy.  Sir  John 
Falstaff,  sojourning  in  Windsor,  proposes  to  engage  in  certain  amo- 
rous speculations  with  the  wives  of  two  well-to-do  citizens,  for  his 
own  pecuniary  benefit.  He  accordingly  indites  love-letters  to  those 
jovial  dames,  who,  being  fast  friends,  at  once  inform  each  other  of 
the  audacious  affront  offered  to  their  virtue,  and  together  contrive 
a  suitable  revenge.  By  their  excellent  devices  Falstaff  is  encour- 
aged in  both  his  suits,  only  to  be  betrayed  into  a  series  of  humil- 
iating situations,  to  the  effect  of  which  Master  Ford,  the  jealous 
spouse  of  our  quick-witted  heroine,  materially  contributes  by  his 
counter-plotting,  as  well  as  by  the  punishment  he  receives  for 
his  groundless  suspicions  of  his  wife's  virtue. 

The  underplot  of  the  play  is  admirably  sustained  by  the  sen- 
timental enterprises  of  three  suitors  for  the  hand  of  "  Sweet  Anne 
Page,"  daughter  of  Mistress  Page,  the  famous  coadjutor  and  fel- 
low-sufferer of  Mistress  Ford ;  and  Mistress  Quickly,  who,  to  her 
"  respectable "  calling  of  woman-of-all-work  in  a  bachelor's  estab- 
lishment, adds  the  more  questionable  profession  of  go-between  in 


144  MISTRESS    FORD. 

all  the  amorous  affairs — honorable  or  to  the  contrary — of  her  vil 
lage,  plays  no  insignificant  part  in  the  laughable  conspiracies  of 
which  the  comedy  consists. 


The  pfquant  original  of  these  speaking  "presentments"  of 
Mistresses  Ford  and  Page,  existed,  we  have  reason  to  believe,  in 
the  person  of  the  beautiful  Mrs.  Davenant,  hostess  of  the  Crown 
Inn  at  Oxford,  in  whose  sprightly  company  the  Poet  spent  so 
many  merry  hours  on  his  journeys  from  London  to  Stratford. 

Without  displaying  any  of  those  dainty  refinements  of  char- 
acter and  manner  which  must  always  enter  into  one's  ideas  of  a 
lady,  Mistress  Ford  commands  our  good-natured  sympathy  by  her 
many  happy  traits :  her  kindness  of  heart,  her  sound  sense,  her 
lively  temper,  and  a  certain  jovial  heartiness  which  pervades  every 
thing  she  does  or  says. 

To  her  conjugal  honesty,  so  ill  rewarded  by  her  provoking 
husband,  we  pay  a  tribute  of  respect  as  genuine,  if  not  so  exalted, 
as  that  elicited  by  the  more  poetic  chastity  of  the  Princess  Imo- 
gen ;  and  it  must  be  conceded  that,  notwithstanding  the  sacrifice 
of  dramatic  effect,  her  manner  of  punishing  the  "  greasy  knight " 
is  far  more  practically  sensible  than  provoking  a  duel  to  heal 
her  wounded  honor,  or  sacrificing  her  life  to  prove  her  husband  a 
fool. 

It  is  plain  that  Mistress  Ford  is  a  buxom  beauty,  in  a  state  of 
remarkable  preservation — "  fat,  fair,"  and  very  near  "  forty,"  but 
blest  with  the  elastic  spirits  attendant  on  that  robust  health  which 
makes  English  matrons  the  finest  in  the  world.  Allowing  ample 
latitude  for  exaggeration,  this  matchless  harangue  of  Gossip  Quick- 
ly, on  the  importunities  suffered  by  the  handsome  Merry  Wife, 


MISTRESS    FORD.  It: 

quite  glibly  testifies  to  her  exceeding  comeliness,  and  suggests  a 
very  possible  coquetry  on  her  part,  sufficient  to  avert  from  her 
poor,  dear  Ford  a  little  of  the  contempt  he  appeal's  to  merit : 

Fal.  Well !  Mistress  Ford  :— what  of  her  ? 
******** 

Quick.  Marry,  this  is  the  short  and  the  long  of  it : 
you  have  brought  her  into  such  a  canaries,  as  'tis  won- 
derful ;  the  best  courtier  of  them  all,  when  the  court 
lay  at  Windsor,  could  never  have  brought  her  to  such  a 
canary.  Yet  there  has  been  knights,  and  lords,  and  gen- 
tlemen with  their  coaches — I  warrant  you,  coach  after 
coach,  letter  after  letter,  gift  after  gift — smelling  so 
sweetly,  (all  musk,)  and  so  rushling,  I  warrant  you,  in 
silk  and  gold ;  and  in  such  alligant  terms ;  and  in  such 
wine  and  sugar  of  the  best,  and  the  fairest,  that  would 
have  won  any  woman's  heart ;  and  I  warrant  you,  they 
could  never  get  an  eye-wink  of  her. — I  had  myself  twen- 
ty angels  given  me  this  morning ;  but  I  defy  all  angels, 
(in  any  such  sort,  as  they  say,)  but  in  the  way  of  hon- 
esty : — and,  I  warrant  you,  they  could  never  get  her  so 
much  as  sip  on  a  cup  with  the  proudest  of  them  all ;  and 
yet  there  has  been  earls,  nay,  which  is  more,  pensioners ; 
but,  I  warrant  you,  all  is  one  with  her. 

For  a  nicer  personal  description,  though  with  even  more  lib- 
eral allowance  for  the  flattery  of  the  would-be  gallant  knight,  we 
transcribe  the  first  love-scene  between  him  and  the  Merry  Wife : 

Fal.  Have  I  caught  thee,  my  heavenly  jewel  ?  Why, 
now  let  me  die,  for  I  have  hvefl.  long  enough  ;  this  is  the 
period  of  my  ambition . — 0  this  blessed  hour ! 

Mrs.  Ford.  O  sweet  Sir  John  ! 

Fal.  Mistress  Ford,  I  cannot  cog ;  I  cannot  prate,  Mis- 
tress Ford.  Now  shall  I  sin  in  my  wish  :  I  would  thy 
husband  were  dead ;  I'll  speak  it  before  the  best  lord — 
I  would  make  thee  my  lady. 

Mrs.  Ford.  I  your  lady,  Sir  John !  Alas,  I  should  be 
a  pitiful  lady. 
19 


146  MISTRESS    FORD. 

Fal.  Let  the  court  of  France  show  me  such  another ; 
I  see  how  thine  eye  would  emulate  the  diamond;  thou 
hast  the  right  arched  bent  of  the  brow,  that  becomes  the 
ship-tire,  the  tire-valiant,  or  any  tire  of  Venetian  admit- 
tance. 

Mrs.  Ford.  A  plain  kerchief,  Sir  John  :  my  brows  be- 
come nothing  else  ;  nor  that  well  neither. 

Fal.  Thou  art  a  traitor  to  say  so :  thou  would'st  make 
an  absolute  courtier ;  and  the  firm  fixture  of  thy  foot 
would  give  an  excellent  motion  to  thy  gait,  in  a  semi- 
circled  farthingale.  I  see  what  thou  wert,  if  Fortune 
thy  foe  were  not ;  Nature  is  thy  friend : — Come,  thou  canst 
not  hide  it. 

Mrs.  Ford.  Believe  me,  there's  no  such  thing  in  me. 

Fal.  What  made  me  love  thee  ?  Let  that  persuade 
thee  there's  something  extraordinary  in  thee.     *        * 


*£/ 


~Ml-lUi)  *,  SC 


. 


MISTRESS    PAGE. 

By  closely  studying  the  characters  of  Mistress  Page  and  Mis- 
tress Ford,  one  may  detect  a  distinction,  but  it  is  a  distinction 
almost  without  a  difference.  They  are  women  of  about  the  same 
age,  the  same  position  in  life,  of  very  similar  temperaments  and 
tastes — social,  merry-hearted,  fond  of  broad  jests,  but  none  the 
less  chaste  for  that — and,  moreover,  friends,  of  long  and  confiden- 
tial intimacy.  It  is  certainly  clear  that  Mistress  Page  is  quite 
subordinate  to  Mistress  Ford  in  the  contrivance  and  execution  of 
the  novel  self-avenging  which  has  made  them  famous :  it  is  Mis- 
tress Ford  who  grants  Falstaff  an  interview  at  her  own  house  dur- 
ing her  husband's  absence,  and  then  sends  him  off,  concealed  in  a 
basket  of  soiled  linen,  to  be  "  dumped "  into  a  foul  ditch ;  it  is 
Mistress  Ford  who,  with  excuses  and  cajolery,  induces  him  to  re- 
peat his  amorous  visit,  only  to  betray  him  to  a  sound  drubbing 
from  her  enraged  lord ;  and  still  Mistress  Ford,  who  accords  him 
an  assignation  in  Windsor  Park,  and  allows  him  one  treacherous 
embrace  before  the  dire  consummation  which  occurs  there. 

We  conclude,  however,  that  this  superior  boldness  on  the  part 
of  Mistress  Ford  arises,  not  from  a  character  dissimilar  in  that  re- 
spect to  that  of  Mistress  Page,  but  rather  from  the  constant 


148  MISTRESS    PAGE. 

temptation  she  finds  in  her  husband's  jealousy,  to  play  upon  his 
weakness  ;  as  she  says  to  her  friend : 

I  know  not  which  pleases  me  better — that  my  husband 
is  deceiv'd,  or  Sir  John. 

And  again : 


*  *  *  O  that  my  husband  saw  this  letter  !  it 
would  give  eternal  food  to  his  jealousy. 

Mistress  Page,  on  the  other  hand,  is  evidently  serious  in  her 
resentful  reception  of  the  insulting  missive ;  her  comments,  as  she 
reads  it,  are  full  of  indignation,  unalloyed  by  a  trace  of  vanity : 

What !  have  I  'scaped  love  letters  in  the  holiday  time 
of  my  beauty,  and  am  I  now  a  subject  for  them?  Let 
me  see. 

"What  a  Herod  of  Jewry  is  this  ? — O  wicked,  wicked 
world ! — one  that  is  well-nigh  worn  to  pieces  with  age,  to 
show  himself  a  young  gallant !  What  an  unweighed  be- 
havior hath  this  Flemish  drunkard  picked  (with  the  devil's 
name)  out  of  my  conversation,  that  he  dares  in  this  man- 
ner assay  me  ?  Why,  he  hath  not  been  thrice  in  my 
company ! — What  should  I  say  to  him  ? — I  was  then  fru- 
gal of  my  mirth : — Heaven  forgive  me  ! — Why,  I'll  ex- 
hibit a  bill  in  the  parliament  for  the  putting  down  of 
men.  How  shall  I  be  revenged  on  him  ?  for  revenged  I 
will  be. 

Contrast  this  with  Mistress  Ford's  jolly  double-entendres — though 
she  becomes  serious  enough  when  she  discovers  that  Falstaff  is 
not  even  honest  in  his  infamous  overtures  : 

Mrs.  Ford.  O  woman,  if  it  were  not  for  one  trifling 
respect,  I  could  come  to  such  honor ! 


MISTRESS    PAGE.  149 

Mrs.  Page.  Hang  the  trifle,  woman ;  take  the  honor. 

What  is  it ! — dispense  with  trifles ; — what  is  it  ? 

Mrs.  Ford.  If  I  would  but  go  to  hell  for  an  eternal 

moment  or  so,  I  could  be  knighted. 
********** 

Here,  read,  read ! 

— perceive  how  I  might  be  knighted. — I  shall  think  the 

worse  of  fat  men  as  long  as  I  have  an  eye  to  make 

difference  of  men's  liking.    And  yet  he  would  not  swear, 

praised  women's  modesty,  and  gave  such  orderly  and 

well-behaved  reproof  to  all  uncomeliness,  that  I  would 

have  sworn  his  disposition  would  have  gone  to  the  truth 

of  his  words. 
******** 

How  shall  I  be 
revenged  on  him  ?  I  think  the  best  way  were  to  enter- 
tain him  with  hope.         ***** 

Mrs.  Page.  Letter  for  letter — but  that  the  name  of 
Page  and  Ford  differs ! — To  thy  great  comfort  in  this 
mystery  of  ill  opinions,  here's  the  twin-brother  of  thy 
letter :  but  let  thine  inherit  first ;  for  I  protest  mine 
never  shall.  I  warrant  he  hath  a  thousand  of  these  let- 
ters, writ  with  blank  space  for  different  names,  (sure 

more ;)  and  these  are  of  the  second  edition. 
********** 

Mrs.  Ford.  Why  this  is  the  very  same — the  very 
hand,  the  very  words  !     What  doth  he  think  of  us? 

Mrs.  Page.  Nay,  I  know  not ;  it  makes  me   almost 

ready  to  wrangle  with  mine  own  honesty.    I'll  entertain 

myself  like  one  that  I  am  not  acquainted  withal. 
********** 

Let's  be  revenged  on  him ; 

let's  appoint  him  a  meeting,  give  him  a  show  of  comfort 

in  his  suit,  and  lead  him  on  with  a  fine  baited  delay,  till 

he  hath  pawn'd  his  horses  to  mine  host  of  The  Garter. 

Mrs.  Ford.   Nay,  I  will  consent  to  act  any  villainy 

against  him,  that  may  not  sully  the  chariness  of  our 

honesty. 


a 


ANNE   PAGE. 

"Sweet  Anne  Page"  is  one  of  those  rare  bits  of  poetic  sketch- 
ing which,  with  scarcely  a  defined  outline,  and  not  a  touch  of  vivid 
coloring,  leave  on  the  fancy  an  indelible  impression  of  refined 
beauty. 

In  her  graceful  quiet,  her  lady-like  reserve,  her  pretty,  modest 
ways,  she  is  so  far  removed  from  those  among  whom  we  find  her, 
and  whose  coarse  good-humor,  and  cordial,  homely  virtues,  are  ut- 
terly devoid  of  taste  or  delicate  sentiment,  that  we  may  almost  re- 
gard her  as  a  second  Perdita — a  gem  of  the  first  water,  shining  all 
the  more  brightly  for  the  roughness  of  its  setting. 

The  subtile,  indescribable  charm  which  accompanies  this 
"pretty  virginity "  is  evidently  felt  by  her  coarse  companions, 
without  being  perceived  or  understood  by  them.  Of  her  three 
lovers,  two  of  them — the  half-witted  booby,  Slender,  (with  whom, 
nevertheless,  originated  her  inseparable  surname,  "Sweet,")  and 
the  old  French  doctor,  Caius — cannot  be  supposed  to  have  the 
faintest  appreciation  of  her  character,  however  profoundly  they 
may  be  impressed  by  her  first-rate  gentility  and  her  father's  money- 
bags. We  do  not  wonder,  then,  that  her  maiden  preference  is  be- 
stowed on  "  young  Master  Fenton,  who  dances,  has  eyes  of  youth, 


152  ANNE    PAGE. 

writes  verses,  speaks  holiday,  smells  April  and  May,  has  kept  com- 
pany with  the  wild  prince,  and  is  of  too  high  a  region  "  for  her  ; 
in  the  one  glimpse  allowed  us  of  their  love-making,  there  is,  in  her 
two  brief  replies  to  Fenton's  appeals,  a  delightful  touch  of  uncon- 
scious coquetry.  In  the  "  why  then,"  at  the  end,  how  much  of 
vague  hope,  fear,  delicious  uncertainty,  for  the  nice  distinctions  of 
a  lover's  heart : 

Fent.  I  see  I  cannot  get  thy  father's  love  ; 
Therefore  no  more  turn  me  to  him,  sweet  Nan. 

Anne.  Alas  !  how  then  ? 

Fent.  Why,  thou  must  be  thyself. 

He  doth  object  I  am  too  great  of  birth ; 
And  that,  my  state  being  gall'd  with  my  expense, 
I  seek  to  heal  it  only  by  his  wealth. 
Besides  these,  other  bars  he  lays  before  me — 
My  riots  past,  my  wild  societies — 
And  tells  me  'tis  a  thing  impossible 
I  should  love  thee,  but  as  a  property. 

Anne.  May  be,  he  tells  you  true. 

Fent.  No,  Heaven  so  speed  me  in  my  time  to  come  ! 
Albeit,  I  will  confess,  thy  father's  wealth 
Was  the  first  motive  that  I  woo'd  thee,  Anne  ; 
Yet,  wooing  thee,  I  found  thee  of  more  value 
Than  stamps  in  gold,  or  sums  in  sealed  bags ; 
And  'tis  the  very  riches  of  thyself 
That  now  I  aim  at. 

Anne.  Gentle  Master  Fenton, 

Yet  seek  my  father's  love ;  still  seek  it,  sir : 
If  opportunity  and  humblest  suit 
Cannot  attain  it — why  then. 

But  alas  for  the  boasted  guilelessness  of  this  most  innocent  of 
maids  !  Love  teaches  even  her  shyness  to  be  bold,  and  insinuates 
deceitful  invention  into  that  heart  where  loyal  obedience  and  sub- 
mission to  parental  will  would  seem  to  have  built  their  throne : 
pretending  to  acquiesce  in  the  contending  views  of  both  her  father 


ANNE    PAGE.  153 

and  her  mother,  she  plays  them  false,  to  consummate  her  own  fond 
designs.  Her  stratagem,  in  which  she  shows  herself  not  inferior 
in  ready  wit  to  the  Merry  Wives,  is  thus  described  by  Fenton  to 
mine  host  of  the  Garter  Inn : 


From  time  to  time  I  have  acquainted  you 
With  the  dear  love  I  bear  to  fair  Anne  Page, 
Who,  mutually,  hath  answer'd  my  affection 
(So  far  forth  as  herself  might  be  her  chooser,) 
Even  to  my  wish.    I  have  a  letter  from  her, 
Of  such  contents  as  you  will  wonder  at — 
The  mirth  whereof  so  larded  with  my  matter, 
That  neither,  singly,  can  be  manifested 
Without  the  show  of  both — wherein  fat  Falstaff 
Hath  a  great  scene;  the  image  of  the  jest 

[Showing  the  letter, 
I'll  show  you  here  at  large.     Hark,  good  mine  host ! 
To-night  at  Heme's  oak,  just  'twixt  twelve  and  one, 
Must  my  sweet  Nan  present  the  fairy  queen — 
The  purpose  why  is  here  ;  in  which  disguise, 
While  other  jests  are  something  rank  on  foot, 
Her  father  hath  commanded  her  to  slip 
Away  with  Slender,  and  with  him  at  Eton 
Immediately  to  marry :  she  hath  consented. 
Now,  sir, 

Her  mother,  even  strong  against  that  match, 
And  firm  for  Dr.  Caius,  hath  appointed 
That  he  shall  likewise  shuffle  her  away, 
While  other  sports  are  tasking  of  their  minds, 
And  at  the  deanery,  where  a  priest  attends, 
Straight  marry  her  ;  to  this  her  mother's  plot 
She,  seemingly  obedient,  likewise  hath 
Made  promise  to  the  doctor. — Now  thus  it  rests : 
Her  father  means  she  shall  be  all  in  white  ; 
And  in  that  habit,  when  Slender  sees  his  time 
To  take  her  by  the  hand,  and  bid  her  go, 
She  shall  go  with  him.    Her  mother  hath  intended, 
The  better  to  denote  her  to  the  doctor, 
(For  they  must  all  be  masked  and  vizarded,) 
20 


154  ANNE    PAGE. 

That,  quaint  in  green,  she  shall  be  loose  enrob'd, 
With  ribands  pendant,  flaring  'bout  her  head  ; 
And  when  the  doctor  spies  his  vantage  ripe, 
To  pinch  her  by  the  hand — and,  on  that  token, 
The  maid  hath  given  consent  to  go  with  him. 

Host.  "Which  means  she  to  deceive  ?  father  or  mother  ? 

Fent.  Both,  my  good  host,  to  go  along  with  me  ; 
And  here  it  rests — that  you'll  procure  the  vicar 
To  stay  for  me  at  church,  'twixt  twelve  and  one, 
And,  in  the  lawful  name  of  marrying, 
To  give  our  hearts  united  ceremony. 

And  as  lovers'  excuses  for  their  own  misdemeanors  are  always 
the  best,  we  cannot  do  better  for  our  sweet  Anne  Page  than  to 
quote  the  plea  of  that  plausible  young  Fenton : 

The  offence  is  holy  that  she  hath  committed, 

And  this  deceit  loses  the  name  of  craft, 

Of  disobedience,  or  unduteous  title  ; 

Since  therein  she  doth  evitate  and  shun 

A  thousand  irreligious  cursed  hours, 

Which  forced  marriage  would  have  brought  upon  her. 


I     nn<   MtlASVKB  .  ACT  3,  SO. I  . 


ISABELLA. 

Isabella  of  Vienna,  a  novice  of  the  Sisterhood  of  St.  Clare, 
was  the  sister  of  Claudio,  a  young  man  under  sentence  of  death 
for  having  seduced  a  lady  betrothed  to  him  in  marriage. 

Vicentio,  the  reigning  Duke  of  Vienna,  becoming  conscious  of 
an  injudicious  clemency  in  his  administration  of  the  laws,  appoint- 
ed Lord  Angelo  his  deputy,  and,  pretending  to  set  out,  incognito, 
on  a  long  journey,  remained  in  his  dukedom,  disguised  as  a  friar, 
to  take  personal  note  of  the  effect  produced  on  his  people  by  the 
severe  discipline  of  an  austere  ruler. 

Claudio  chanced  to  be  the  first  detected  in  the  violation  of  a 
law  which,  from  long  neglect  to  enforce  it,  had  become  a  dead  let- 
ter ;  and  to  establish  an  example  for  the  salutary  contemplation 
of  its  many  outragers,  Angelo,  without  hesitation,  condemned  him 
to  die. 

Isabella,  who  was  on  the  point  of  taking  the  veil  in  the  con- 
vent where  she  had  served  her  novitiate,  being  sent  for  by  her 
brother,  abandoned  her  strict  seclusion,  to  implore  his  pardon  at  the 
feet  of  Angelo,  who  at  first  was  inexorable ;  but,  seeming- virtuous 
as  he  was,  he  finally  became  enamoured  of  the  beautiful  vestal,  and 
offered  her  Claudio's  life  in  exchange  for  her  honor.     His  vile  pro- 


156  ISABEL-LA. 

posal  was  indignantly  rejected ;  and  in  recounting  to  her  brother, 
in  prison,  the  details  of  the  insult,  Isabella  was  overheard  by  the 
duke,  who,  as  a  friar,  had  visited  Claudio  to  administer  the  conso- 
lations of  religion,  and  to  acquaint  himself  with  the  facts  of  the 
case.  On  parting  from  her  brother,  Isabella  was  accosted  by  the 
friar,  who  bade  her  seem  to  acquiesce  in  Angelo's  proposition,  and 
appoint  him  an  assignation  at  night,  taking  every  precaution,  how- 
ever, to  insure  strict  secrecy ;  and  he  promised  that  he  would  pro- 
cure a  substitute  for  her,  in  the  person  of  Mariana,  a  young  lady 
to  whom  Angelo  had  been  betrothed,  who  still  loved  him,  whom 
he  had  deserted  on  some  dishonorable  pretext,  but  whom  he 
would  be  compelled  to  marry  after  this  visit — such  being  the  friar's 
motive  for  interference. 

Isabella  consented  to  this  subterfuge,  the  more  readily  that  it 
was  advised  by  a  holy  father  ;  and  it  was  accordingly  executed  as 
the  duke  had  proposed.  Angelo,  however,  with  a  treachery  to  be 
expected  from  his  hypocritical  sanctity,  although  he  confidently 
believed  that  he  had  won  the  immaculate  Isabella,  resolved  not  to 
fulfil  the  terms  of  his  own  infamous  bargain — he  feared  the  ven- 
geance of  Claudio,  the  order  for  whose  immediate  execution  was 
now  set  aside  only  through  the  intervention  of  the  friar,  who  pro- 
duced the  duke's  signet  as  evidence  of  his  superior  authority. 

The  return  of  Vicentio  was  then  proclaimed  throughout  the 
city  of  Vienna  ;  and  all  persons  having  grievances  to  complain  of 
against  the  State  were  commanded  to  make  public  declaration  of 
them  before  the  duke. 

Isabella,  who  believed  that  her  brother  had  been  executed, 
notwithstanding  Angelo's  promise  to  her,  was  the  first  to  enter 
complaint  against  that  corrupt  judge ;  whereupon,  after  some  in- 
tricate preliminaries,  the  lord  deputy's  wickedness  was  exposed, 
and  he  was  forced  to  make  restitution  to  the  wronged  but  faithful 


ISABELLA.  157 

Mariana,  by  marrying  her.  Claudio,  pardoned  by  the  duke,  was 
united  to  the  victim  of  his  selfish  passion ;  and,  finally,  the  spot- 
less Isabella  was  created  Duchess  of  Vienna  by  Vicentio,  whose 
gracious  preference  she  had  won  by  her  uncompromising  virtue. 


The  character  of  Isabella  presents  a  notable  example  of  the 
inefficacy  of  a  purely  intellectual  virtue  to  command  our  sympathy 
or  admiration,  or  in  any  way  to  advance  the  cause  of  Religion. 

In  critical,  as  well  as  popular,  appreciation,  Isabella  occupies  a 
position  of  cool  toleration — although  in  some  opinions  she  has 
risen  from  that  questionable  status,  to  be  denominated  "  an  angel 
of  light,"  and  by  another  order  of  minds  has  been  assailed  with 
vituperative  violence,  as  a  coarse,  vixenish  prude.  The  prudent 
preservation  of  a  temperate  course,  between  these  two  exaggera- 
tions, will  perhaps  be  the  shortest  and  the  surest  road  to  strict  jus- 
tice toward  one  who  would,  herself,  desire  no  more* 

Cold,  faultless,  severe  in  moral  rectitude,  not  liable  to  the 
weaknesses  which  "  make  the  whole  world  kin,"  and  utterly  inca- 
pable of  sympathy  for  them,  this  religieuse  stands,  in  a  manner, 
arrayed  against  her  fellows:  existing, not  only  physically,  but  mor- 
ally, apart  from  them,  permitting  herself  no  tie  of  reciprocal  feel- 
ing to  keep  her  united  with  the  human  family — the  type  of  a  class 
of  mistaken  but  sincere  religionists  of  all  sects,  who,  by  their  re- 
pulsive self-sufficiency,  fatally  subvert  the  very  interests  to  which 
they  have  consecrated  their  lives. 

Isabella  is  no  hypocrite — that  is,  consciously ;  her  flawless  ex- 
cellence commands  our  exalted  respect,  our  honorable  recognition, 
however  it  may  repel  any  more  enthusiastic  admiration ;  to  the 
impregnability  of  her   chastity,   the  prominent  feature   of   her 


158  ISABELLA. 

strongly  marked  individuality,  full  honor  must  be  awarded ;  yet 
self-sacrifice,  without  a  reservation,  has  become  so  inseparably  asso- 
ciated with  all  that  is  most  lovable  in  woman,  that  it  would  have 
been  far  easier  to  forgive  the  actual  offence,  than  conscientiously 
to  applaud  her  moral  grandeur,  remembering  the  beautiless  de- 
tails of  her  victory. 

We  do  not  "  doubt  the  angelic  purity  of  Isabella ; "  and,  but 
for  the  instance  of  eccentric  depravity  furnished  by  her  lover  An- 
gelo,  we  should  believe  only  one  event  to  be  less  possible  than  her 
"  lapse  from  virtue  " — that,  notwithstanding  her  beauty,  it  should 
ever  have  sustained  a  temptation. 

Isabella's  complaints  of  the  too  lax  discipline  of  her  order  are 
construed  by  her  panegyrist,  Mrs.  Jameson,  to  signify  that  she  de- 
sires a  "  more  strict  restraint,"  "  from  the  consciousness  of  strong 
intellectual  and  imaginative  power,  and  of  overflowing  sensibility" 
in  herself,  which  require  it.  With  all  respect,  we  would  suggest 
that  this  "  very  virtuous  maid "  is  supplied  with  the  latter  quali- 
ties only  from  the  abundant  stores  of  the  accomplished  authoress 
herself.  Isabella's  strong  intellectual  power  no  one  questions — 
it  is  conclusively  established  in  her  logical  tilt  of  wits  with  the 
lord  deputy ;  but  of  imagination,  or  sensibility,  she  is  as  destitute 
as  an  Audrey.  Her  appetite  for  severer  penances  and  sharper  mor- 
tifications is  natural  to  the  morbid  devotee — and  by  no  means  pe- 
culiar to  her,  or  of  any  special  significance. 

The  austerity  of  Isabella's  heart  and  soul,  as  well  as  of  her  out- 
ward life — her  freedom  from  emotion,  almost  incredible  in  one  so 
young — cannot  be  better  illustrated  than  by  the  dialogue  between 
her  and  Angelo,  wherein  she  proves  her  dreadful  insensibility  to 
the  peril  of  her  brother's  situation  by  the  cool,  self-possessed,  equi- 
poised arguments  with  which  she  pleads  for  him.  It  is  plain  that 
her  words  are  doing  violence  to  her  convictions,  that  in  suing  for 


ISABELLA.  159 

his  pardon  she  is  conscious  of  wronging  her  rigid  conscientious- 
ness ;  and  she  is  quite  willing  to  retire,  on  the  slightest  pretext, 
and  leave  justice  triumphant  over  the  mercy  for  which  she  argues 
— even  over  the  life  of  her  wretched  brother  • 

Isab.  I  am  a  woeful  6iritor  to  your  honor, 
Please  but  your  honor  hear  me. 

Ang.  Well ;  what's  your  suit  ? 

Isab.  There  is  a  vice  that  most  I  do  abhor, 
And  most  desire  should  meet  the  blow  of  justice — 
For  which  I  would  not  plead,  but  that  I  must — 
For  which  I  must  not  plead,  but  that  I  am 
At  war  'twixt  will,  and  will  not. 

Ang.  Well ;  the  matter  ? 

Isab.  I  have  a  brother  is  condemn'd  to  die  : 
I  do  beseech  you,  let  it  be  his  fault, 
And  not  my  brother. 

Ang.  Condemn  the  fault,  and  not  the  actor  of  it ! 
Why,  every  fault's  condemn'd  ere  it  be  done  : 
Mine  were  the  very  cipher  of  a  function, 
To  find  the  faults  whose  fine  stands  in  record, 
And  let  go  by  the  actor. 

Isab.  O  just,  but  severe  law ! 

I  had  a  brother  then. — Heaven  keep  your  honor ! 

[Retiring. 

Jjucio.  [To  Isab.]  Give't  not  o'er  so ;  to  him  again, 
entreat  him ; 
Kneel  down  before  him,  hang  upon  his  gown ; 
You  are  too  cold :  if  you  should  need  a  pin, 
You  could  not  with  more  tamo  a  tongue  desire  it. 
To  him,  I  say  ! 

Isab.  Must  he  needs  die  ? 

Ang.  Maiden,  no  remedy. 

Isab.  Yes  ;  I  do  think  that  you  might  pardon  him, 
And  neither  heaven  nor  man  grieve  at  the  mercy. 
********* 

Ang.  He's  sentenc'd ;  'tis  too  late. 

Isab.  Too  late  ?  why,  no  ;  I  that  do  speak  a  word 
May  call  it  back  again  :  Well,  believe  this  : 


160  ISABELLA 

No  ceremony  that  to  great  ones  'longs, 
Not  the  king's  crown,  nor  the  deputed  sword, 
The  marshal's  truncheon,  nor  the  judge's  robe, 
Become  them  with  one  half  so  good  a  grace 
As  mercy  does. 
******* 

*        *        *        O,  it  is  excellent 

To  have  a  giant's  strength ;  but  it  is  tyrannous 

To  use  it  like  a  giant. 

Her  interview  with  her  brother  in  prison  is  even  more  charac- 
teristic :  her  first  speech  to  him,  when,  agonized  with  suspense,  he 
awaits  the  issue  of  her  prayers  to  the  lord  deputy,  is  almost  incon- 
ceivably harsh  and  unwomanly ;  Isabella  tricks  out  the  fatal  intel- 
ligence in  a  sustained  figure,  substitutes  rhetoric  for  the  consoling 
tenderness  of  a  sister,  and  a  sister  of  charity : 

Claud.  Now,  sister,  what's  the  comfort  ? 

Isdb.  Why,  as  all  comforts  are — most  good  indeed. 
Lord  Angelo,  having  affairs  to  heaven, 
Intends  you  for  his  swift  embassador, 
Where  you  shall  be  an  everlasting  lieger  : 
Therefore  your  best  appointment  make  with  speed — 
To-morrow  you  set  on. 

Claud.  Is  there  no  remedy  ? 

Isab.  None,  but  such  remedy  as,  to  save  a  head, 
To  cleave  a  heart  in  twain. 

Claud.  But  is  there  any  ? 

Isdb.  Yes,  brother,  you  may  live  ;" 
There  is  a  devilish  mercy  in  the  judge, 
If  you'll  implore  it,  that  will  free  your  life, 
But  fetter  you  till  death. 

Claud.  Thou  shalt  not  do 't. 

Isab.  O,  were  it  but  my  life, 
I'd  throw  it  down  for  your  deliverance 
As  frankly  as  a  pin. 

Claud.  Thanks,  dear  Isabel. 

Isab.  Be  ready,  Claudio,  for  your  death  to-morrow. 


ISABELLA.  161 

Claud.  Yes. — Has  he  affections  in  him, 
That  thus  can  make  him  bite  the  law  by  the  nose, 
When  he  would  force  it  ?    Sure  it  is  no  sin  ; 
Or  of  the  deadly  seven  it  is  the  least. 

Isab.  Which  is  the  least  ? 

Claud.  If  it  were  damnable,  he  being  so  wise, 
Why  would  he  for  the  momentary  trick 
Be  perdurably  fin'd  ? — O  Isabel !  , 

Isab.  What  says  my  brother  ? 

Claud.  Death  is  a  fearful  thing — 

Isab.  And  shamed  life  a  hateful. 

Claud.  Sweet  sister,  let  me  live  : 

What  sin  you  do  to  save  a  brother's  life, 
Nature  dispenses  with  the  deed  so  far 
That  it  becomes  a  virtue. 

Isab.  O  you  beast ! 

O  faithless  coward  !  O  dishonest  wretch ! 
Wilt  thou  be  made  a  man  out  of  my  vice  ? 

♦  ♦♦it::):*** 

*  *        *        *        Take  my  defiance. 
Die,  perish !  might  but  my  bending  down 
Reprieve  thee  from  thy  fate,  it  should  proceed : 
I'll  pray  a  thousand  prayers  for  thy  death, 

No  word  to  save  thee. 


21 


^z 


AN'ITiNY   AND    CUKOVATUA     ACT    1.3CS. 


■ 


CLEOPATRA. 

This  world-renowned  princess  was  the  daughter  of  Ptolemy 
Auletes,  king  of  Egypt,  at  whose  death,  she,  with  her  brother, 
ascended  the  throne.  The  motif  of  Shakspeare's  play,  of  which  she 
is  the  heroine,  consists  of  the  episode,  with  its  final  catastrophe,  of 
.her  intrigue  with  Mark  Antony,  the  Roman  hero — commencing 
with  his  first  visit  to  Alexandria,  whither  he  had  followed  Cleopa- 
tra after  that  triumphant  excursion  to  Tarsus,  so  glowingly  de- 
scribed in  the  text : 

The  barge  she  sat  in,  like  a  burnish'd  throne, 

Burn'd  on  the  water  :  the  poop  was  beaten  gold  ; 

Purple  the  sails,  and  so  perfumed  that 

The  winds  were  love-sick  with  them ;  the  oars  were  silver, 

Which  to  the  tune  of  flutes  kept  stroke,  and  made 

The  water,  which  they  beat,  to  follow  faster, 

As  amorous  of  their  strokes.    For  her  own  person, 

It  beggar'd  all  description  :  she  did  lie 

In  her  pavilion,  (cloth  of  gold,  of  tissue,) 

O'er-picturing  that  Venus,  where  we  see 

The  fancy  outwork  nature  ;  on  each  side  her 

Stood  pretty  dimpled  boys,  like  smiling  Cupids, 

"With  divers-color'd  fans,  whose  wind  did  seem 

To  glow  the  delicate  cheeks  which  they  did  cool, 

And  what  they  undid,  did. 


164  CLEOPATRA. 

******** 

Her  gentlewomen,  like  the  Nereides, 
So  many  mermaids,  tended  her  i'  the  eyes, 
And  made  their  bends  adornings ;  at  the  helm 
A  seeming  mermaid  steers ;  the  silken  tackle 
Swell  with  the  touches  of  those  flower-soft  hands, 
That  yarely  frame  the  office.    From  the  barge 
A  strange  invisible  perfume  hits  the  sense 
Of  the  adjacent  wharfs. 

Here,  in  the  palace  of  the  Ptolemies,  abandoning  himself  to  the 
fascinations  of  his  imperial  mistress,  and  the  bewildering  revels 
with  which  she  besotted  and  enchained  him,  the  "  triple  pillar  of 
the  world  "  forgot  his  glory,  his  wife,  and  his  country.  One  day, 
however,  in  the  midst  of  his  ignoble  ease,  messengers  from  Rome 
arrived  at  the  Egyptian  court,  with  tidings  for  Antony  of  internal 
wars  at  home,  and  of  the  death  of  his  wife,  Fulvia.  This  intelli- 
gence awakening  his  patriotism  and  his  remorse,  he  shook  off  his 
sensual  sloth  and  returned  at  once  to  Rome,  to  find  Octavius 
Caesar,  one  of  his  associate  triumvirs,  highly  incensed  by  the  rumors 
which  had  reached  them  of  his  dishonorable  self-indulgence,  while 
his  wife,  Fulvia,  "  to  have  him  out  of  Egypt "  at  any  cost,  had  been 
waging  war  against  Caesar.  In  a  spirit  of  true  penitence,  Antony 
acknowledged  his  criminal  remissness ;  and,  to  renew  their  friendly 
relations  the  more  securely,  he  married  the  virtuous  Octavia, 
Caesar's  sister. 

But  internal  jealousies  soon  again  divided  their  interests ;  and 
Octavia  having  left  her  husband  to  visit  her  brother  in  Rome,  for 
the  purpose  of  reconciling  them  once  more,  Antony  rejoined  Cleo- 
patra in  Alexandria,  with  imposing  ceremonials  bestowed  upon  her 
a  large  addition  to  her  dominions,  and  proclaimed  his  sons  by  her 
"  the  kings  of  kings." 

War  between  Antony  and  Caesar  was  now  hotly  waged,  to  be 


CLEOPATRA.  165 

finally  decided  by  a  naval  contest  at  Actium ;  where,  by  a  mere 
accident,  Antony  lost  the  day,  and  fled  to  Egypt.  He  offered 
various  terms  of  capitulation  to  Caesar ;  but  that  victorious  hero 
would  content  himself  with  nothing  less  than  the  death  of  the  man 
who  had  outraged  his  sister's  honor,  and  scoffed  at  his  avenging 
power ;  he,  however,  sent  secret  messages  to  Cleopatra,  assuring 
her  of  his  protection  if  she  would  give  up  her  lover.  The  artful 
queen  pretended  to  receive  these  advances  with  humble  gratitude, 
and  Antony,  apprised  of  her  conduct,  suspected  and  accused  her 
of  treachery  toward  himself. 

To  dissipate  his  doubts  of  her  constancy,  Cleopatra  betook 
herself,  with  her  women,  to  a  tower,  which  she  had  erected  as 
her  monument,  and,  as  a  final  stroke  of  coquetry,  caused  it  ttf  be 
reported  that  she  had  killed  herself.  Antony,  in  despair  at  the 
news  of  her  death,  threw  himself  upon  his  sword,  just  as  Cleopatra, 
fearful  of  the  effect  of  her  artifice,  had  sent  to  contradict  the  dan- 
gerous tidings ;  he  ordered  his  attendants  to  bear  him  into  her 
presence,  and  died  in  her  arms. 

Caesar,  thus  robbed  of  half  his  triumph,  resolved  to  secure  Cleo- 
patra as  a  captive  and  a  trophy,  to  glorify  his  return  to  Rome. 
Through  her  maternal  pride  and  affection  he  prevented  her  from 
starving  herself ;  but  when  she  found  that  he  was  proof  against 
her  charms,  and  learned  beyond  doubt  for  what  ignominious  pur- 
pose she  was  spared,  she  procured  an  asp,  and  died  of  its  venom- 
ous bite — her  faithful  attendants  sharing  her  fate. 


Eternal  and  unfading  as  the  glory  of  her  Egyptian  skies,  this 
"  serpent  of  old  Nile  "  shall  unwind  her  coils  from  about  the  hearts 
of  men,  only  when  Tims,  shall  cease  to  be.     Her  spells,  as  potent 


166  CLEOPATRA. 

to-day  as  when  she  reigned,  a  score  of  centuries  since,  survive  the 
subtle  enchantress  from  whom  they  emanated,  to  mock  us  with 
something  of  her  own  imperial  coquetry,  when  we  fain  would  shut 
our  eyes  against  their  dazzling  charms,  and  bring  our  steady  reason 
to  bear  upon  her  intrinsic  claims  to  admiration  and  respect. 

The  very  faults  of  Cleopatra,  emblazoned  with  all  the  mystic 
extravagance  of  Eastern  story,  constitute  her  most  fatal  fascina- 
tion ;  they  bewilder  one's  moral  sense^  overwhelm  it  with  kaleido- 
scopic brilliancies,  tinge  its  grave  conclusions  with  the  spirit  of 
their  maddest  intoxication,  till,  like  Mark  Antony,  we  find  our- 
selves wondering,  applauding,  paying  participating  tribute,  where 
we  had  thought  to  sit  in  austere  judgment. 

Complexity,  contradiction,  "infinite  variety,"  instantaneous 
transmutations,  are  the  exponents  of  Cleopatra's  character ;  she  is 
consistent  only  in  being  inconsistent — each  particular  idiosyncrasy, 
keen,  flashing,  meteoric,  is  "like  the  lightning,  which  doth  cease 
to  be,*  ere  we  can  say  It  lightens."  With  towering,  audacious  con- 
sciousness of  power,  she  one  moment  challenges  our  contempt, 
by  the  coarse  wrangling  of  a  vixenish  temper,  only  the  more  abso- 
lutely to  compel  our  recognition  of  her  royal  elegance  and  classic 
grace,  the  next ;  she  unites  in  herself  all  that  is  luxurious  in  volup- 
tuousness, unscrupulous  in  the  gratification  of  passion,  reckless  in 
the  procurement  of  debasing  pleasure,  and  insolent  in  self-assertion, 
with  rare  intellect,  superior  attainments,  and  elegant  accomplish- 
ments, a  lively  and  intense  imagination,  magnificent  tastes,  a 
grand,  self-reliant  spirit,  a  warm,  generous  heart,  and  a  perfection 
in  the  art  of  coquetry  never  attained  by  woman  before  or  since — 
this  last  being  the  more  remarkable,  in  that  she  was  not  possessed 
of  extraordinary  beauty. 

The  Cleopatra  of  Shakspeare — among  a  multitude  of  abortive 
creations  which  have  taken  her  name  in  yain — is,  alone,  the  faith 


CLEOPATRA.  1G7 

ful  reflection  of  that  Oriental  Circe  who  holds  our  imaginations 
captive  in  "  her  strong  toil  of  grace ; "  only  she  realizes  to  one's 
senses  the  glowing  ideal  suggested  by  her  very  name.  In  delineat- 
ing her,  Shakspeare  employed  to  the  utmost  his  wonderful  faculty 
of  perfectly  identifying  himself  for  the  time  with  the  character  he 
was  in  the  act  of  portraying ;  his  sublime  insight  alone,  unaided 
by  fancy  or  invention,  was  concerned  in  bringing  out  this  living 
portrait ;  for  even  the  minutest  dramatic  effect  he  adhered  strictly 
to  historical  facts,  "  spreading  over  the  whole  a  richness  like  the 
overflowing  of  the  Nile." 

The  most  characteristic  display  of  Cleopatra's  antithetical 
peculiarities  is  afforded  by  the  scenes  immediately  following  her 
lover's  departure :  First,  where,  "  feeding  herself  with  most  deli- 
cious poison,"  she  lolls  in  restless,  longing,  luxurious  languor,  call- 
ing for  drugged  draughts,  that  she  may  "  sleep  out  this  great  gap 
of  time  her  Antony  is  away" — teasing  her  attendants  with  her 
lovesick  petulance,  beguiling  the  heavy  hours  with  passionate 
fancies : 

Cleo.  O  Charmian, 

Where  think'st  thou  he  is  now  ?    Stands  he,  or  sits  he  ? 
Or  does  he  walk  ?  or  is  he  on  his  horse  ? 
O  happy  horse,  to  hear  the  weight  of  Antony ! 
m  Do  bravely,  horse  !  for  wot'st  thou  whom  thou  mov'st  ? 
The  demi- Atlas  of  this  earth,  the  arm 
And  burgonet  of  men. — He's  speaking  now, 
Or  murmuring,  Where's  my  serpent  of  old  Kile  ? 
For  so  he  calls  me ; 

Met'st  thou  my  posts  ? 

Alex.  Ay,  madam,  twenty  several  messengers : 
Why  do  you  send  so  thick  ? 

Cleo.  Who's  born  that  day 

When  I  forget  to  send  to  Antony, 
Shall  die  a  beggar. — Ink  and  paper,  Charmian. — 


168  CLEOPATRA. 

Welcome,  my  good  Alexas. — Did  I,  Charmian, 
Ever  love  Csesar  so  ? 

Char.  O  that  brave  Caesar ! 

Cleo.  Be  chok'd  with  such  another  emphasis ! 
Say  the  brave  Antony. 

Char.  The  valiant  Caesar ! 

Cleo.  By  Isis  !  I  will  give  thee  bloody  teeth, 
If  thou  with  Caesar  paragon  again 
My  man  of  men. 

Char.  By  your  most  gracious  pardon, 

I  sing  but  after  you. 

Cleo.  My  salad  days, 

When  I  was  green  in  judgment : — Cold  in  blood, 
To  say  as  I  said  then ! — But,  come,  away : 
Get  me  ink  and  paper ;  he  shall  have  every  day 
A  several  greeting,  or  I'll  unpeople  Egypt. 

In  strong  contrast  to  this  tremendous  trifling,  is  the  scene  where 
she  receives  the  messenger  from  Italy:  with  what  half-prescient 
emotion  she  anticipates  the  evil  tidings  that  cling  to  his  tongue  ! 
With  what  shocking  transitions  Hope  and  Fear  toss  alternately, 
from  her  lips,  promises  full  of  gracious  elegance,  and  coarse  threats 
of  personal  violence,  till  they  have  lashed  up  a  tempest  in  her  tor- 
rid soul,  to  vent  its  impotent  fury  on  the  innocent  cause  of  her 
anguish : 

Mess.  Madam,  madam, —  •> 

Cleo.  Antony's  dead  ? — 
If  thou  say  so,  villain,  thou  kill'st  thy  mistress ; 
But  well  and  free, 

If  thou  so  yield  him,  there  is  gold,  and  here 
My  bluest  veins  to  kiss — a  hand  that  kings 
Have  lipp'd,  and  trembled  kissing. 

Mess.  First,  madam,  he's  well. 

Cleo.  "Why,  there's  more  gold.    But,  sirrah,  mark !  we  use 
To  say  the  dead  are  well :  bring  it  to  that, 
The  gold  I  give  thee  will  I  melt,  and  pour 
Down  thy  ill-uttering  throat. 


CLEOPATRA.  169 

Mess.  Good  madam,  hear  me. 

Cleo.  Well,  go  to,  I  will ; 

But  there's  no  goodness  in  thy  face.     If  Antony- 
Be  free,  and  healthful, — why  so  tart  a  favor 
To  trumpet  such  good  tidings  ?    If  not  well, 
Thou  should'st  come  like  a  fury  crown'd  with  snakes 
Not  like  a  formal  man. 

Mess.  Will 't  please  you  hear  me  ? 

Cleo.  I  have  a  mind  to  strike  thee,  ere  thou  speak'st ; 
Yet,  if  thou  say  Antony  lives,  is  well, 
Or  friends  with  Caesar,  or  not  captive  to  him, 
I'll  set  thee  in  a  shower  of  gold,  and  hail 
Rich  pearls  upon  thee. 

Mess.  Madam,  he's  well. 

Cleo.  Well  said. 


In  state  of  health,  thou  say'st ;  and,  thou  say'st,  free. 

Mess.  Free,  madam !  no  ;  I  made  no  such  report : 
He's  hound  unto  Octavia. 

Cleo.  For  what  good  turn. 

******** 

Mess.  Madam,  he's  married  to  Octavia. 

Cleo.  The  most  infectious  pestilence  upon  thee  ! 

[Strikes  him  down. 
— Hence, 
Horrible  villain  !  or  I'll  spurn  thine  eyes 
Like  halls  before  me ;  I'll  unhair  thy  head  ; 
Thou  shalt  be  whipp'd  with  wire,  and  stew'd  in  brine, 
Smarting  in  ling'ring  pickle. 

Mess.  Gracious  madam, 

I,  that  do  bring  the  news,  made  not  the  match. 

Cleo.  Say  'tis  not  so,  a  province  I  will  give  thee, 
And  make  thy  fortunes  proud ;  the  blow  thou  had'st 
Shall  make  thy  peace,  for  moving  me  to  rage ; 
And  I  will  boot  thee  with  what  gift  beside 
Thy  modesty  can  beg. 

Mess.  He's  married,  madam. 

Cleo.  Rogue,  thou  hast  liv'd  too  long. 

[Draws  a  dagger. 
22 


lfO  CLEOPATRA. 

But  the  rude  storm  spent,  this  wrathful  queen  is  as  love-lorn 
and  pitiful,  in  her  tears  and  swooning  sorrow,  as  any  heart-wrung 
wretch  of  to-day : 

Cleo.  In  praising  Antony,  I  have  disprais'd  Caesar. 

Char.  Many  times,  madam. 

Cleo.  I  am  paid  for 't  now. 

Lead  me  from  hence — 

I  faint !  0  Iras,  Charmian !— 'Tis  no  matter : — 
Go  to  the  fellow,  good  Alexas  ;  hid  him 
Report  the  feature  of  Octavia,  her  years, 
Her  inclination ;  let  him  not  leave  out 
The  color  of  her  hair :— bring  me  word  quickly. — 
Let  him  forever  go — Let  him  not — Charmian, 
Though  he  be  painted  one  way  like  a  Gorgon, 
T'  other  way  he's  a  Mars. — Bid  you  Alexas 
Bring  me  word  how  tall  she  is. — Pity  me,  Charmian  ; 
But  do  not  speak  to  me. — Lead  me  to  my  chamber. 

Hazlitt  says  of  Cleopatra  that  "she  had  great  and  unpai don- 
able  faults,  but  the  beauty  of  her  death  almost  redeems  them."  It 
would,  indeed,  quite  redeem  them,  if  we  did  not  find  the  motive 
that  prompted  her  death,  "  after  the  high  Eoman  fashion,"  more 
plainly  evinced  in  her  haughty  horror  of  being  paraded  through 
Rome,  than  in  her  anguish  at  surviving  the  lover  whom  she  had, 
in  a  manner,  murdered ;  for  a  woman  of  equally  intense  passions, 
and  less  egotism,  the  last  would  have  sufficed ;  but  with  Cleopatra, 
Self  was  paramount  to  Love,  and  all  the  gods. 

Antony,  brought  to  the  foot  of  the  monument,  mortally  wound- 
ed, implores  her  to  come  down  to  him ;  yet  even  at  that  moment 
of  shocked  surprise  and  overwhelming  agony,  she  answers  him 
thus — a  selfish  consideration  uppermost  even  then  : 

I  dare  not,  dear ; 
(Dear  my  lord,  pardon,)  I  dare  not, 


CLEOPATRA.  171 

Lest  I  be  taken.     Not  the  imperious  show 

Of  the  full-fortun'd  Caesar  ever  shall 

Be  hrooch'd  with  me  ;  if  knife,  drugs,  serpents,  have 

Edge,  sting,  or  operation,  I  am  safe. 

Your  wife,  Octavia,  with  her  modest  eyes 

And  still  conclusion,  shall  acquire  no  honor 

Demuring  upon  me. 

Then,  with  the  assistance  of  her  women,  "  Cleopatra,  stooping 
down  her  head,  putting  to  all  her  strength  to  her  uttermost 
power,  did  lift  him  up  with  much  ado,  and  never  let  go  her  hold." 

And  thus,  again,  to  Csesar's  messenger : 

Know,  sir,  that  I 
Will  not  wait  pinion'd  at  your  master's  court ; 
Nor  once  be  chastis'd  with  the  sober  eye 
Of  dull  Octavia.    Shall  they  hoist  mo  up, 
And  show  me  to  the  shouting  varletry 
Of  censuring  Rome  ?    Rather  a  ditch  in  Egypt 
Be  gentle  grave  to  me !  rather  on  Nilus'  mud 
Lay  me  stark  naked,  and  let  the  water-flies 
Blow  me  into  abhorring !  rather  make 
My  country's  high  pyramides  my  gibbet, 
And  hang  me  up  in  chains  ! 

But  in  the  following  burst,  addressed  to  one  of  her  women,  and 

repeated  in  detailed  offensiveness,  the  better  to  strengthen  her 

own  timid  purpose,  speaks  all  the  woman — the  sumptuous  Sybarite 

to  whom  coarseness  of  association  or  diet  was  immeasurably  worse 

than  the  profoundest  moral  degradation   of  "purple   and  fine 

linen : " 

******** 

*        *      Now,  Iras,  what  think'st  thou  ? 
Thou,  an  Egyptian  puppet,  shalt  be  shown 
In  Rome,  as  well  as  I :  mechanic  slaves 
"With  greasy  aprons,  rules,  and  hammers,  shall 


172  CLEOPATRA. 

Uplift  us  to  the  view ;  in  their  thick  breaths, 
Rank  of  gross  diet,  shall  we  be  enclouded, 
And  forc'd  to  drink  their  vapor. 

*  *         *         *         *         *         *        * 

Saucy  lictors 
"Will  catch  at  us,  like  strumpets ;  and  scald  rhymers 
Ballad  us  out  o'  tune ;  the  quick  comedians 
Extemporally  will  stage  us,  and  present 
Our  Alexandrian  revels  ;  Antony 
Shall  be  brought  drunken  forth,  and  I  shall  see 
Some  squeaking  Cleopatra  boy  my  greatness. 

The  death  scene  imparts  additional  and  gorgeous  vividness  to 
our  vision  of  Cleopatra ;  it  proves  indisputably  that  coquetry  is 
not  with  her  a  merely  convenient  art,  acquired  and  cultivated  for 
a  purpose,  but  part  of  her  very  being.  Jffiect,  even  in  the  "  article 
of  death,"  is  her  ruling  passion.  It  is  not  enough  that  she  should 
give  up  grandly  her  illustrious  ghost ;  she  must  die  picturesquely, 
berobed  and  jewelled;  and  her  success  is,  as  ever,  perfect :  the  glo- 
rious legend  of  the  "  Venus  of  the  Nile,"  robed  in  imperial  ves- 
tures, crowned,  and  dead — looking  like  sleep,  "  as  she  would  catch 
another  Antony  in  her  strong  toil  of  grace,"  is  spendidly  embla- 
zoned on  the  panes  of  fancy,  in  imperishable  dyes. 

Two  delicate  touches  of  the  "  pure  womanly  "  throw  a  mourn- 
ful tenderness  over  the  last  moments  of  the  unhappy  queen.  One 
is  her  allusion  to  the  grand  triumph  of  her  life,  the  adventure  of 
the  Cydnus,  in  which  she  likens  this  dreadful  setting-forth  to  that 
first  journey  to  her  lover : 

Show  me,  my  women,  like  a  queen : — Go  fetch 
My  best  attires  ; — I  am  again  for  Cydnus, 
To  meet  Mark  Antony : 

Give  me  my  robe  ;  put  on  my  crown. 

*  *        *        Quick !— Methinks  I  hear 
Antony  call. 


CLEOPATRA.  173 

And  again : 

Char.  O  eastern  star ! 

Cleo.  Peace,  peace ! 

Dost  thou  not  see  my  baby  at  my  breast, 
That  sucks  the  nurse  asleep  ? 

Here  it  is  not  only  "  the  contrast  between  the  beauty  of  the 
image  and  the  horror  of  the  situation"  which  produces  so  touch- 
ing an  effect,  but  the  reproduction,  wilh  startling  reality,  of  the 
very  sensations  experienced  by  Cleopatra  in  the  act  of  suffering 
this  quick  and  "  easy  way  to  die."  Had  not  Shakspeare  written 
thus,  we  should  be  sure  that  none  but  a  mother  could  with  such 
reality  conceive  of  the  luxurious,  dreamy,  half-unconscious  lan- 
guor, peculiar  to  her  most  beautiful  office,  and  which,  through  an 
image  as  tender  as  it  is  subtile,  conveys  to  our  minds  the  only 
idea  we  can  associate  with  the  death  of  Cleopatra — a  voluptuous, 
intoxicated  sleep,  rather  than  death. 

We  are  tempted  to  transcribe  a  few  condensed  expressions  of 
character,  scattered  throughout  the  play,  as  affording  the  truest 
index  to  Cleopatra's  distinguished  peculiarities.  For  examples 
of  her  coquetry : 

Cleo.  Where  is  he  ? 

Char.  I  did  not  see  him  since. 

Cleo.  See  where  he  is,  who's  with  him,  what  he  does — 
I  did  not  send  you. — If  you  find  him  sad, 
Say  I  am  dancing ;  if  in  mirth,  report 
That  I  am  sudden  sick :  Quick,  and  return.     [Exit  Alex. 

Char.  Madam,  methinks  if  you  did  love  him  dearly, 
You  do  not  hold  the  method  to  enforce 
The  like  from  him. 

Cleo.  What  should  I  do  I  do  not  ? 

Char.  In  each  thing  give  him  way,  cross  him  in  nothing. 

Cleo.  Thou  teachest  like  a  fool — the  way  to  lose  him. 


174  CLEOPATRA. 

Char.  Tempt  him  not  so  too  far ;  I  wish,  forbear. 
In  time  we  hate  that  which  we  often  fear. 

Ant.  I  must  be  gone. 

Eno.        ******** 

*  *  Cleopatra,  catching  but  the  least  noise  of  this, 
dies  instantly ;  I  have  seen  her  die  twenty  times  upon 
far  poorer  moment.  I  do  think  there  is  mettle  in  death, 
which  commits  some  loving  act  upon  her,  she  hath  such 
a  celerity  in  dying. 

Ant.  She  is  cunning  past  man's  thought. 
.  Eno.  Alack,  sir,  no ;  her  passions  are  made  of  nothing 
but  the  finest  part  of  pure  love.  We  cannot  call  her 
winds  and  waters  sighs  and  tears  ;  they  are  greater 
storms  and  tempests  than  almanacs  can  report :  this  can- 
not be  cunning  in  her ;  if  it  be,  she  makes  a  shower  of 
rain  as  well  as  Jove. 

Cleo.  Cut  my  lace,  Charmian,  come  !— 

But  let  it  be  ; — I  am  quickly  ill,  and  well. 
So  Antony  loves. 

To  the  monument ! — 
Mardian,  go  tell  him  I  have  slain  myself; 
Say  that  the  last  I  spoke  was  Antony, 
And  word  it,  pr'ythee,  piteously.    Hence, 
Mardian ;  and  bring  me  how  he  takes  my  death. 

I  know,  by  that  same  eye,  there's  some  good  news. 
What  says  the  married  woman  ? — You  may  go ; 
'Would  she  had  never  given  you  leave  to  come ! 
Let  her  not  say  'tis  I  that  keep  you  here — 
I  have  no  power  upon  you ;  hers  you  are. 
******** 

Ant.  Cleopatra, — 

Cleo.  Why  should  I  think  you  can  be  mine  and  true, 
Though  you  in  swearing  shake  the  throned  gods, 
Who  have  been  false  to  Fulvia?    Riotous  madness, 
To  be  entangled  with  those  mouth-made  vows, 
Which  break  themselves  in  swearing ! 


CLEOPATRA.  175 

Ant.  Most  sweet  queen, — 

Cleo.  Nay,  pray  you,  seek  no  color  for  your  going, 

But  bid  farewell,  and  go.    "When  you  sued  staying, 

Then  was  the  time  for  words — no  going  then ; 

Eternity  was  in  our  lips  and  eyes, 

Bliss  in  our  brows'  bent. 

And  finally  these  speaking  portraits : 

Ant.  Fye,  wrangling  queen  ! 

Whom  every  thing  becomes — to  chide,  to  laugh, 
To  weep ;  whose  every  passion  fully  strives 
To  make  itself  in  thee  fair  and  admired  ! 

O  this  false  soul  of  Egypt !  this  grave  charm, 

Whose  eye  beck'd  forth  my  wars,  and  call'd  them  home. 

Age  cannot  wither  her,  nor  custom  stale 

Her  infinite  variety :  Other  women 

Cloy  th'  appetites  they  feed ;  but  she  makes  hungry 

Where  most  she  satisfies ;  for  vilest  things 

Become  themselves  in  her. 


I    sc.  s . 


■•  a  dway 


CUES  SID A. 


This  fair  but  frail  beauty  was  the  daughter  of  Calchas,  a  Tro- 
jan priest,  who,  in  the  great  war  between  his  countrymen  and  the 
Greeks — provoked  by  the  abduction  of  Helen,  Menelaus'  queen, 
by  Paris,  one  of  the  king  of  Troy's  sons — took  part  with  the  Greeks, 
and  fled  to  their  camp  outside  the  walls  of  the  "  many-gated  city," 
leaving  Cressida  with  her  uncle  Pandarus. 

Prince  Troilus,  Priam's  youngest  son,  became  blindly  infatua- 
ted with  the  beautiful  Cressida,  who  secretly  returned  his  passion, 
but  with  coquettish  dissimulation  held  herself  aloof,  despite  the 
well-laid  plans  of  her  intriguing  uncle  to  consummate  the  tender 
hopes  of  Troilus.  At  last,  however,  beset  on  every  side,  Cressida 
yielded  to  the  importunate  suit  of  her  lover,  and  confessed  herself 
won ;  but  the  very  next  day,  the  Greeks,  moved  by  the  prayers 
of  Calchas,  sent  a  herald  to  the  Trojans,  to  proffer  Antenor,  one 
of  the  Trojan  commanders  whom  they  had  taken  prisoner,  in  ex- 
change for  Cressida,  the  priest's  daughter ;  and  the  offer  was  joy- 
fully accepted. 

Cressida,  accordingly,  departed  for  the  camp,  escorted  by  Dio- 
med,  a  Grecian  general,  on  whom,  notwithstanding  her  vows  of 
fidelity  to  Troilus — himself  the  most  constant  of  lovers — she  at 

23 


178  CRESSIDA. 

once  bestowed  her  perfidious  favors  ;  the  Greek,  for  all  his  valor, 
was  not  proof  against  her  charms. 

Shortly  afterward,  during  a  truce,  and  a  friendly  interview  of 
Hector  and  Troilus  with  the  Greek  heroes,  on  the  latter's  own 
ground,  Troilus  was  made  aware  of  Cressida's  perfidy,  and  from  a 
concealed  position  witnessed  certain  love  passages  between  her 
and  Diomed,  in  which  she  presented  her  new  lover  with  the  very 
same  gage  d?  amour  that  she  had  accepted  from  him  when  she  left 
Troy.  On  the  morrow,  during  the  engagements  by  single  combat 
between  the  most  puissant  of  the  Greeks  and  Trojans,  Troilus 
fought  valiantly  with  his  rival,  Diomed,  who  tauntingly  displayed 
Cressida's  gift  on  his  helmet;  but  the  rash,  unpractised  stripling 
could  not  cope  with  the  tried  skill  of  the  Greek ;  Diomed  suc- 
ceeded in  dismounting  the  "  amorous  Trojan,"  and  sent  his  charger 
as  a  trophy  to  the  lady  Cressid. 

On  that  same  day  the  valiant  Hector — who  had  gone  forth  to 
battle  despite  the  tears  and  prayers  of  his  wife  Andromache, 
despite  the  entreaties  of  his  royal  father,  and  the  foreboding  ut- 
terances of  the  forlorn  Cassandra,  whose  ravings  might  well  have 
been  accepted  as  inspirations — was  treacherously  murdered  by 
Achilles,  the  champion  of  the  Greeks. 


In  puny  contrast  with  Egypt's  queen  of  voluptuousness — the 
same  in  kind,  but  immeasurably  below  her  in  degree — stands 
Cressida,  the  type  of  coquettes  of  little  ambitions  and  less  brains, 
flirting,  jilting,  silly  wantons,  whose  insignificant  amours  lack  every 
quality  of  sentiment  or  taste  which  might  appeal  to  one's  tolera- 
tion— most  of  all,  that  intellectual  element  which  may  impart  even 
to  her  sin  a  certain  dignity. 


CRESSIDA.  179 

Cressida  is  but  another  name  for  an  inconstancy  tenfold  more 
hopeless  than  downright  treachery,  in  that  it  implies  an  inherent 
incapability  of  being  true ;  the  involuntary  breaking  of  her  sol- 
emn oaths  to  her  lover,  uttered  in  all  sincerity  perhaps,  betrays  a 
nature  far  more  hopelessly  depraved  than  if  she  had,  from  the  fii-st, 
meant  to  deceive  him.  Selfish  love  of  admiration  possesses  her 
completely  ;  her  life  is  devoted  to  the  gratification  of  a  petty  van- 
ity, and  the  study  of  a  very  low  order  of  seductions  to  procure  it ; 
not  once  do  her  faults  rise  to  the  dignity  of  bad  passions,  nor  are 
they  ever  honored  with  more  indignation  than  a  contemptuous 
disgust.  Her  penchant  for  the  handsome  young  Troilus  is  utterly 
without  taste,  "tenderness,  passion,  or  poetry;"  it  is  only  the  di- 
luted romance  of  a  giddy-pated  girl.  Her  confession  of  love  for 
him,  in  which  she  judges  him  by  her  own  fickleness  and  wanton 
exercise  of  power,  is  characteristic : 

Cres.  Boldness  comes  to  me  now,  and  brings  me  heart : — 
Prince  Troilus,  I  have  lov'd  you  night  and  day, 
For  many  weary  months. 

Tro.  "Why  was  my  Cressid  then  so  hard  to  win  ? 

Cres.  Hard  to  seem  won  ;  but  I  was  won,  my  lord, 
With  the  first  glance  that  ever — Pardon  me  ; — 
If  I  confess  much,  you  will  play  the  tyrant. 
I  love  you  now ;  but  not,  till  now,  so  much 
But  I  might  master  it. — In  faith,  I  lie ; 
My  thoughts  were  like  unbridled  children,  grown 
Too  headstrong  for  their  mother. — See,  we  fools  ! 
"Why  have  I  blabb'd  ?    Who  shall  be  true  to  us, 
When  we  are  so  unsecret  to  ourselves  ? 
But,  though  I  lov'd  you  well,  I  woo'd  you  not ; 
And  yet,  good  faith,  I  wish'd  myself  a  man  ; 
Or  that  we  women  had  men's  privilege 
Of  speaking  first.     Sweet,-  bid  me  hold  my  tongue  ; 
For,  in  this  rapture,  I  shall  surely  speak 
The  thing  I  shall  repent.     See,  see !  your  silence, 
Cunning  in  dumbness,  from  my  weakness  draws 


180  CRESSIDA. 

My  very  soul  of  counsel :  Stop  my  mouth. 

Tro.  And  shall,  albeit  sweet  music  issues  thence. 

********* 

Cres.  My  lord,  I  do  beseech  you,  pardon  me — 

'Twas  not  my  purpose,  thus  to  beg  a  kiss ; 

I  am  asham'd  ; — O  heavens !  what  have  I  done  ? 
********* 

Cres.  Pr'ythee,  tarry ; 

You  men  will  never  tarry. — 

0  foolish  Cressid ! — I  might  have  still  held  off, 
And  then  you  would  have  tarried. 

And  even  more  Cressid-like  is  her  explanation  of  the  mean  philos- 
ophy that  prompted  that  seeming  "  stubborn-chastity  against  all 
suit,"  which  so  captivated  her  hero-lover : 

But  more  in  Troilus  thousand  fold  I  see 
Than  in  the  glass  of  Pandar's  praise  may  be  ; 
Yet  hold  I  off.    Women  are  angels,  wooing  ; 
Things  won  are  done — joy's  soul  lies  in  the  doing 
That  she  belov'd  knows  nought,  that  knows  not  this — 
Men  prize  the  thing  ungain'd  more  than  it  is  ; 
That  she  was  never  yet  that  ever  knew 
Love  got  so  sweet,  as  when  Desire  did  sue  : 
Therefore  this  maxim  out  of  love  I  teach, — 
Achievement  is  command  ;  ungain'd,  beseech. 
Then  though  my  heart's  content  firm  love  doth  bear, 
Nothing  of  that  shall  from  mine  eyes  appear. 

In  the  parting  scene  she  makes  much  of  her  pretty  poutings 
and  her  spoilt-child  petulance  ;  the  threatened  destruction  of  her 
beauty  is  an  exquisite  touch  of  nature,  while  her  high-sounding 
oaths  are  ludicrous  only  to  those  who  have  anticipated  the  sequel : 

Cres.  O  you  immortal  gods  ! — I  will  not  go. 

Pan.  Thou  must. 

Cres.  I  will  not,  uncle  :  I  have  forgot  my  father ; 

1  know  no  touch  of  consanguinity ; 


CRESSIDA.  181 

No  kin,  no  love,  no  blood,  no  soul  so  near  me 
As  the  sweet  Troilus. — O  you  gods  divine  I 
Make  Cressid's  name  the  very  crown  of  falsehood, 
If  ever  she  leave  Troilus !    Time,  Force,  and  Death, 
Do  to  this  body  what  extremes  you  can ; 
But  the  strong  base  and  building  of  my  love 
Is  as  the  very  centre  of  the  earth, 
Drawing  all  things  to  it. — I'll  go  in,  and  weep, — 
********** 
Tear  my  bright  hair,  and  scratch  my  pr^^d  cheeks, 
Crack  my  clear  voice  with  sobs,  and  break  my  heart 
With  sounding  Troilus.     I  will  not  go  from  Troy. 

*      4gk  *  *         ,-#£"' 


If  I  be  false,  or  swerve  a  hair  from  truth, 

When  Time  is  old  and  hath  forgot  itself, 

"When  waterdrops  have  worn  the  stones  of  Troy, 

And  blind  Oblivion  swallow'd  cities  up, 

And  mighty  states,  characterless,  are  grated 

To  dusty  nothing — yet  let  memory, 

From  false  to  false,  among  false  maids  in  love, 

Upbraid  my  falsehood !         *        *  * 

********* 

Yea,  let  them  say,  to  stick  the  heart  of  falsehood, 
As  false  as  Cressid 

We  cannot  more  appropriately  conclude  our  reniarksupn  a  sub- 
ject that  certainly  tempts  us  but  little,  than  by  quoting  the 
trenchant  description  of  the  sage  Ulysses  : 

Fye,  fye  upon  her  ! 
There's  language  in  her  eye,  her  cheek,  her  lip — 
Nay,  her  foot  speaks ;  her  wanton  spirits  look  out 
At  every  joint  and  motive  of  her  body. 
O,  these  encounterers,  so  glib  of  tongue, 
That  give  a  coasting  welcome  ere  it  comes, 
And  wide  unclasp  the  tables  of  their  thoughts 
To  every  ticklish  reader !  set  them  down 
For  sluttish  spoils  of  opportunity, 
And  daughters  of  the  game. 


# 


J 


rllOILVS  AND  C.UKSS1DA,  ACT  3,    SC  . 


'     44      4  4''  6 


HELEN. 

Tins  "Jlautiful  trouble"  of  the  Trojan  War,  the  most  admired 
woman  of  her  time,  was  the  "  begotten  of  Jupiter,"  by  Leda,  wife 
of  King  Tyndarus.  From  her  birth  she  was  a  marvel  of  beauty ; 
and  when  she  had  arrived  at  marriageable  age,  many  of  the  Greek 
princes  became  suitors  for  her  hand.  Finally  she  made  choice  of 
Menelaus,  and  the  others  joined  in  a  chivalrous  compact  to  protect 
his  marital  rights  against  the  world.  Paris,  son  of  Priam,  king  of 
Troy,  smitten  by  the  mere  report  of  her  charms,  visited  Lacedae- 
mon  on  the  pretext  of  sacrificing  to  Apollo ;  and  in  the  absence 
of  Menelaus,  he  prevailed  on  the  beautiful  Helen  to  fly  with  him 
to  Troy. 

True  to  their  vow,  the  Grecian  princes  held  a  solemn  council, 
and  resolved  to  make  war  against  the  Trojans ;  but  first  they  sent 
an  embassy  to  Priam's  court,  demanding  the  restoration  of  Helen. 
This  refused,  war  was  declared  at  once,  and  the  Grecian  forces  sur- 
rounded the  walled  city  of  Troy.  The  tedious  siege  lasted  ten 
years ;  Paris  having  been  killed  in  the  ninth  year,  HeleWiiarried 
another  of  Priam's  sons ;  and  when  Troy  fell,  she  betrayed  her 
husband  into  the  hands  of  the  conquerors,  to  procure  the  favor  of 
Menelaus. 


184  HELEN. 

A  few  years  later,  Menelaus,  who  had  received  again  his  un 
worthy  wife,  died ;  and  Helen,  driven  from  his  court  by  his  ille- 
gitimate sons,  took  refuge  in  Rhodes,  where  she  was  put  to  death 
by  order  of  the  queen,  Polyxo,  in  revenge  for  the  loss  of  her  hus- 
band, who  had  been  killed  in  the  Trojan  war. 


The  sketch  of  Helen,  in  the  play  of  Troilus  mid  Cressida,  is 
not  less  incomplete  than  that  of  "  the  mad  Cassandra ; "  still,  from 
that  mere  outline  of  her  history  the  inference  is  safe,  that  she  was 
as  fickle  and  false  as  she  was  incomparably  fair — a  ^thless  wife, 
and  a  treacherous  mistress — a  woman  who  could  abandon  herself 
to  the  most  frivolous  pleasures  while  the  best  blood  of  two  nations 
was  being  wasted  for  the  glory  of  possessing  her  person.  Dionied, 
the  Grecian  general,  who  fell  so  easy  a  victim  to  Cressida  of  infa- 
mous memory,  is  scarcely  one  from  whom  to  expect  impressive  les- 
sons in  morality;  but  his  appreciation  of  Helen  is  nevertheless  just: 

Par.  And  tell  me,  noble  Diomed — faith,  tell  me  true, 
Even  in  the  soul  of  sound  good-fellowship — 
Who,  in  your  thoughts,  merits  fair  Helen  best — 
Myself  or  Menelaus  ? 

Dio.  Both  alike : 

He  merits  well  to  have  her,  that  doth  seek  her 
(Not  making  any  scruple  of  her  soilure,) 
With  such  a  hell  of  pain,  and  world  of  charge  ; 
And  you  as  well  to  keep  her,  that  defend  her 
(Not  palating  the  taste  of  her  dishonor,) 
With  such  a  costly  loss  of  wealth  and  friends  : 

Par.  You  are  too  bitter  to  your  countrywoman. 

Pio.  She's  bitter  to  her  country :  Hear  me,  Paris. — 
For  every  false  drop  in  her  bawdy  veins 
A  Grecian's  life  hath  sunk ;  for  every  scruple 


HELEN.  185 


Of  her  contaminated  carrion  weight, 
A  Trojan  hath  heen  slain  ;  since  she  could  speak, 
Sh«  hath  not  given  so  many  good  words  breath 
As  for  her  Greeks  and  Trojans  suffer'd  death. 

But  this 

Mortal  Venus,  the  heart-blood  of  beauty,  love's  invisi- 
ble soul, 

seems  to  have  cast  the  spell  of  her  abominable  charms  over  her 
Trojan  defenders  ;  Paris,  indeed,  "  speaks  like  one  besotted  on  his 
sweet  delights : " 

Say  I  propose  not  merely  to  myself 

The  pleasures  such  a  beauty  brings  with  it ; 

But  I  would  have  the  soil  of  her  fair  rape 

Wip'd  off,  in  honorable  keeping  her. 

What  treason  were  it  to  the  ransack'd  queen, 

Disgrace  to  your  great  worths,  and  shame  to  me, 

Now  to  deliver  her  possession  up, 

On  terms  of  base  compulsion  ?     Can  it  be, 

That  so  degenerate  a  strain  as  this 

Should  once  set  footing  in  your  generous  bosoms  ? 

There's  not  the  meanest  spirit  on  our  party, 

Without  a  heart  to  dare,  or  sword  to  draw, 

When  Helen  is  defended ;  nor  none  so  noble, 

Whose  life  were  ill-bestow'd,  or  death  unfam'd, 

Where  Helen  is  the  subject :  then,  I  say, 

Well  may  we  fight  for  her  whom,  we  know  well, 

The  world's  large  spaces  cannot  parallel. 

But  the  simple-minded,  brave,  honorable  Troilus  is  scarcely  less 
enthusiastic  when  there  is  question  among  the  assembled  sages  of 
Troy  whether  or  not  to  restore  Helen  to  her  husband : 

********** 
He  brought  a  Grecian  queen,  whose  youth  and  freshness 
Wrinkles  Apollo's,  and  makes  pale  the  morning. 
24 


186  HELEN. 


Is  she  worth  keeping  ?  why,  she  is  a  pearl, 

Whose  price  hath  launch'd  above  a  thousand  ships, 

And  turn'd  crown'd  kings  to  merchants. 

If  you'll  avouch  'twas  wisdom  Paris  went, 

(As  you  must  needs,  for  you  all  cry'd — Go,  go  !) 

If  you'll  confess  he  brought  home  noble  prize, 

(As  you  must  needs,  for  you  all  clapp'd  your  hands, 

And  cry'd — Inestimable  !)  why  do  you  now 

The  issue  of  your  proper  wisdoms  rate, 

And  do  a  deed  that  fortune  never  did — 

Beggar  the  estimation  which  you  priz'd 

Richer  than  sea  and  land  ?    *        *        * 

******** 

She  is  a  theme  of  honor  and  renown, 
A  spur  to  valiant  and  magnanimous  deeds, 
"Whose  present  courage  may  beat  down  our  foes, 
And  fame,  in  time  to  come,  canonize  us. 


y#t 


* 


■:, !.V1.  ACT  2    SC2. 


CASSANDRA. 

Cassandra  was  the  daughter  of  Priam,  and  twin-sister  of  Hele- 
nus.  In  her  early  youth  she  was  beloved  by  Apollo,  who  endowed 
her  with  the  gift  of  prophecy,  and  demanded  her  love  in  return. 
This  was  indignantly  refused  by  the  virgin  princess ;  wherefore, 
enraged  by  her  refusal,  Apollo  left  her  in  possession  of  her  super- 
natural faculty,  but  set  a  cruel  curse  on  her  predictions — that  they 
should  never  be  believed. 

Thus  she  suffered  all  the  anguish  of  foreseeing  the  fate  of  her 
beloved  Troy,  without  being  able  to  persuade  the  people  to  give 
up  Helen — the  unworthy  cause  of  that  disastrous  war.  They 
deemed  her  warnings  mere  "  brain-sick  raptures  : " 

Cas.  Cry,  Trojans,  cry  !  lend  me  ten  thousand  eyes, 
And  I  will  fill  them  with  prophetic  tears. 

Sect.  Peace,  sister,  peace ! 

Cas.  Virgins  and  boys,  mid  age  and  wrinkled  elders, 
Soft  infancy,  that  nothing  canst  but  cry, 
Add  to  my  clamors  !  let  us  pay  betimes 
A  moiety  of  that  mass  of  moan  to  come. 
Cry,  Trojans,  cry !  practise  your  eyes  with  tears ! 
Troy  must  not  be,  nor  goodly  Ilion  stand ; 
Our  fire-brand  brother,  Paris,  burns  us  all. 


188  CASSANDRA. 

Cry,  Trojans,  cry !  a  Helen,  and  a  woe  ! 

Cry,  cry !  Troy  burns,  or  else  let  Helen  go.  {Exit. 

Sect.  Now,  youthful  Troilus,  do  not  these  high  strains 
Of  divination  in  our  sister  work 
Some  touches  of  remorse  ?  or  is  your  blood 
So  madly  hot  that  no  discourse  of  reason, 
Nor  fear  of  bad  success  in  a  bad  cause, 
Can  qualify  the  same  ? 

Tro.  Why,  brother  Hector, 

We  may  not  think  the  justness  of  each  act 
Such  and  no  other  than  event  doth  form  it ; 
Nor  once  deject  the  courage  of  our  minds, 
Because  Cassandra's  mad ;  her  brain-sick  raptures 
Cannot  distaste  the  goodness  of  a  quarrel 
Which  hath  our  several  honors  all  engag'd 
To  make  it  gracious. 

The  scene  where,  foreseeing  the  death  of  her  hero-brother, 
Hector,  the  strong  arm  of  Troy,  she  beseeches  him  not  to  go  forth 
to  battle  on  that  unlucky  day,  is  full  of  highly-wrought  tragic 
effects ;  her  frantic  pre-vision  of  his  death,  which  she  interprets 
with  all  the  despairing  grief  of  a  sister  and  the  fervid  conviction 
of  a  prophetess — and  her  hopeless,  resigned  "  farewell,"  when  it 
fails  to  move  him,  and  she  remembers  her  curse,  abound  in  touch- 
ing eloquence : 

Cas.  Where  is  my  brother  Hector  ? 

And.  Here,  sister — arm'd  and  bloody  in  intent- 
Consort  with  me  in  loud  and  dear  petition- 
Pursue  we  him  on  knees ;  for  I  have  dream'd 
Of  bloody  turbulence,  and  this  whole  night 
Hath  nothing  been  but  shapes  and  forms  of  slaughter. 

Cas.  0,  it  is  true. 

Sect.  Ho !  bid  my  trumpet  sound  ! 

Cas.  No  notes  of  sally,  for  the  heavens,  sweet  brother. 

Sect.  Begone,  I  say  !  the  gods  have  heard  me  swear. 

Cas.  The  gods  are  deaf  to  hot  and  peevish  vows  ; 


CASSANDRA.  180 

They  are  polluted  offerings,  more  abhorr'd 
Than  spotted  livers  in  the  sacrifice. 

And.  O  !  be  persuaded.    Do  not  count  it  holy 
To  hurt  by  being  just ;  it  is  as  lawful, 
For  we  would  give  much,  to  use  violent  thefts, 
And  rob  in  the  behalf  of  charity. 

Cas.  It  is  the  purpose  that  makes  strong  the  vow  ; 
But  vows  to  every  purpose  must  not  hold. 
Unarm,  sweet  Hector. 
******** 
Lay  hold  upon  him,  Priam — hold  him  fast : 
He  is  thy  crutch  ;  now,  if  thou  lose  thy  stay, 
Thou  on  him  leaning,  and  all  Troy  on  thee, 
Fall  all  together. 

PH.  Come,  Hector,  come  !  go  back : 

Thy  wife  hath  dream'd ;  thy  mother  hath  had  visions ; 
Cassandra  doth  foresee  ;  and  I  myself 
Am  like  a  prophet  suddenly  enrapt, 
To  tell  thee — that  this  day  is  ominous ; 
Therefore,  come  back. 
********* 

Tro.  This  foolish,  dreaming,  superstitious  girl 
Makes  all  these  bodements. 

Cas.  O  farewell,  dear  Hector. 

Look,  how  thou  diest !  look,  how  thy  eye  turns  pale ! 
Look,  how  thy  wounds  do  bleed  at  many  vents  ! 
Hark,  how  Troy  roars !  how  Hecuba  cries  out ! 
How  poor  Andromache  shrills  her  dolors  forth  ! 
Behold,  destruction,  frenzy,  and  amazement, 
Like  witless  antics,  one  another  meet, 
And  all  cry — Hector !  Hector's  dead !  O  Hector ! 

Tro.  Away! — Away! 

Cas.  Farewell. — Yet,  soft. — Hector,  I  take  my  leave  : 
Thou  dost  thyself,  and  all  our  Troy,  deceive. 

The  Cassandra  of  Shakspeare  is  but  a  sketch — one  of  those 
half-mad  sibyls  of  the  East  who  generally  exercised  so  potent  an 
influence  over  the  popular  mind,  and  whose  counsels  were  so  highly 
esteemed  in  the  world's  romantic  age.    Her  subsequent  fate  was  as 


190  CASSANDRA. 

wretched  as  the  Shakspearian  episode  of  her  life  is  melancholy : 
according  to  classical  authority,  Cassandra  was  violated  by  Ajax, 
one  of  the  Greek  heroes,  in  a  sacred  temple,  whither  she  had  fled 
with  her  maidens  for  protection  when  Troy  was  taken.  Falling  to 
the  share  of  Agamemnon,  he  bore  her  to  Mycene,  where  they 
were  both  murdered  by  his  wife.  Clytemnestra. 


2^U 


/O 


or  THE 


TIIE   SHREW. 

Katharena  was  tlie  elder  daughter  of  Baptista  Minola,  a 
wealthy  citizen  of  Padua.  So  notorious  was  she  for  her"  violent 
temper  and  unruly  tongue,  that,  although  she  was  handsomely 
dowered,  and  very  "beautiful,  not  a  gallant  in  the  city  was  bold 
enough  to  take  her  to  wife.  But  it  happened  that  Petruchio,  a 
gentleman  from  Verona,  having  fallen  into  possession  of  his  prop- 
erty by  the  death  of  his  father,  had  come  to  "  wive  it  wealthily  in 
Padua,"  where  certain  lovers  of  Bianca,  Katharina's  sister,  who 
were  interested  in  the  marrying  of  the  Shrew — inasmuch  as  Bap- 
tista would  not  think  of  wedding  his  younger  daughter  first — in- 
formed Petruchio  of  this  most  excellent  chance  for  him  to  get  a 
rich  wife,  as  he  had  declared  to  them  that  <only  riches  were  indis- 
pensable to  his  choice. 

So  he  straightway  went  to  Baptista  and  made  proposals  for 
Katharina,  which  were  accepted,  on  condition  that  the  young 
signior  should  find  favor  with  the  Shrew.  Katharina  did  not  fail 
to  treat  her  suitor  promptly  to  a  spice  of  her  unlovely  temper ; 
but  Petruchio,  well  prepared,  took  no  notice  of  her  saucy  rejoinders, 
except  to  construe  them   as   amiable  manifestations ;  and  when 


192  THE    SHREW. 

her  father  rejoined  thein,  he  informed  him  that  Kate  had  promised 
to  become  his  wife  on  the  following  Sunday. 

Old  Baptista,  delighted  at  the  prospect  of  marrying  "Kath- 
arina  the  curst,"  *made  handsome  preparations  for  the  wedding,  to 
which  Petruchio  came  in  such  strange  attire,  and  with  such  odd  be- 
havior, that  he  was  regarded  by  the  bride  and  the  guests  as  half 
crazed.  At  the  church  he  conducted  himself  even  more  wildly, 
and  immediately  after  the  wedding,  insisted  upon  starting  for  his 
own  home,  in  spite  of  the  entreaties  of  his  father-in-law  that  he 
would  stay  to  the  feast  he  had  prepared,  and  the  downright,  but 
unavailing,  refusal  of  his  bride  to  accompany  him. 

Arrived  at  their  own  house,  Petruchio,  madder  than  before, 
began  beating  the  servants  and  storming  at  every  thing  ;  clearing 
the  table  before  his  wife  had  eaten  a  morsel,  on  pretence  that  the 
viands  were  not  cooked  fit  for  his  dainty  Kate  ;  tearing  her  bed  to 
pieces,  because  it  was  not  properly  made ;  keeping  her  awake  night 
after  night  with  railing,  after  her  own  fashion — till,  with  hunger 
and  fatigue,  Katharina's  "  mad  and  headstrong  humor "  was  tamed 
down  sufficiently  to  receive  with  edification  the  course  of  lessons 
her  husband  had  projected  for  her  benefit. 

Soon  after  their  marriage  he  proposed  a  journey  to  her  father's 
house  ;  and  while  on  the  road  thither,  because  his  wife  presumed 
to  correct  him  for  saying  "  how  goodly  shines  the  moon,"  in  bright 
mid-day,  he  immediately  ordered  their  horses  to  be  taken  back ; 
nor  would  he  consent  to  proceed,  until  Katharina  swore  it  should 
be  sun,  moon,  rush-candle,  or  what  he  pleased.  And  still  more 
oddly  to  test  her  submission,  he  caused  her  to  greet  an  old  man  on 
the  highway  as  a"  young  and  budding  virgin " — and  in  the  next 
breath,  as  he  really  was,  a  wrinkled  graybeard.  But  the  final 
triumph  of  his  discipline  was  reserved  to  be  displayed  in  her 
father's  house,  where,  at  his  command,  she  read  a  lecture  on  conju- 


THE    SHREW.  193 

gal  obedience  to  her  sister  Bianca  and  a  pert  widow,  who  had  just 
been  made  brides,  and  who  had  been  exhibiting  signs  of  wayward- 
ness towards  "  their  lords,  their  kings,  their  governors." 


It  is  scarcely  possible  to  consider  the  character  of  Katharina 
with  gravity ;  her  shrewishness  is  so  wildly  extravagant,  so  incon- 
ceivable in  any  maiden,  "  young,  beauteous,  and  brought  up  as  best 
becomes  a  gentlewoman,"  that  she  may  serve  but  as  the  heroine 
of  the  extravaganza  wherein  she  figures — and  as  a  burlesque 
"  moral  and  example "  to  those  "  not  impossible  shes "  who  are 
curst,  within  the  bounds  of  probability,  with  her  unamiable  pro- 
clivities. 

The  predicaments  of  this  brawling  Kate  are  extremely  ludi- 
crous ;  but  we  cannot  be  so  charitable  towards  her  peculiar  sin 
against  womanhood  as  to  pity  them,  even  when  she  is  most  hardly 
pressed — she  deserves  even  more  than  she  suffers,  at  the  hands  of 
her  mad  Petruchio  ;  and  the  outward  fruits  of  her  trials  and  tribu- 
lations are  highly  satisfactory.  Nevertheless,  we  own  we  have  but 
little  faith  in  the  enduring  quality  of  a  "taming"  which  i3  procured 
by  almost  the  same  means  as  are  employed  in  the  subduing  of  a 
wild  animal,  and  by  a  husband  who  neither  loves  nor  is  loved  by 
her  ;  we  much  fear  that — the  keeper  and  his  lash  out  of  sight — 
this  human  wild-cat,  "  convinced  against  her  will,"  would  be  "  of 
the  same  opinion  still." 

One  is  amused  at  Hazlitt's  absurdities  about  Petruchio's  meta- 
morphosing his  wife's  senses  at  his  will — as  if  he  believed  that 
Katharina  actually  sees  what  her  husband  pretends  to  see  ;  so  far 
from  affording  satisfaction  to  a  man  of  less  blunted  sensibilities 

than  her  husband,  Kate's  ready  acquiescence  in  his  palpable  non- 
25 


194  THE    SHREW. 

sense  would  be  full  of  sarcasm,  ten  times  more  insulting,  more 
spiteful,  than  her  honest  railing. 

For  two  of  the  "  eleven  and  twenty"  tricks  of  Petruchio,  we 
give  the  incidents  of  the  journey  to  Padua : 

Pet.  Come  on,  o'  God's  name ;  once  more  toward  our  father's. 
Good  Lord,  how  bright  and  goodly  shines  the  moon  ! 

Kath.  The  moon  ! — the  sun ;  it  is  not  moonlight  now. 

Pet.  I  say  it  is  the  moon  that  shines  so  bright. 

Kath.  I  know  it  is  the  sun  that  shines  so  bright. 

Pet.  Now,  by  my  mother's  son,  and  that's  myself, 
It  shall  be  moon,  or  star,  or  what  I  list, 
Or  ere  I  journey  to  your  father's  house  : — 
Go  on,  and  fetch  our  horses  back  again. — 
Evermore  cross'd,  and  cross'd ;  nothing  but  cross'd  ! 

Hor.  Say  as  he  says,  or  we  shall  never  go. 

Kath.  Forward,  I  pray,  since  we  have  come  so  far ; 
And  be  it  moon,  or  sun,  or  what  you  please  ; 
And  if  you  please  to  call  it  a  rush  candle, 
Henceforth  I  vow  it  shall  be  so  for  me. 

Pet.  I  say  it  is  the  moon. 

Kath.  I  know  it  is. 

Pet.  Nay,  then  you  lie ;  it  is  the  blessed  sun. 

Kath.  Then,  God  be  blessed,  it  is  the  blessed  sun  ; 
But  sun  it  is  not,  when  you  say  it  is  not ; 
And  the  moon  changes,  even  as  your  mind. 
What  you  will  have  it  nam'd,  even  that  it  is  ; 
And  so  it  shall  be  so,  for  Katharina. 

Pet.  Tell  me,  sweet  Kate — and  tell  me  truly  too — 
Hast  thou  beheld  a  fresher  gentlewoman  ? 
Such  war  of  white  and  red  within  her  cheeks ! 
What  stars  do  spangle  heaven  with  such  beauty 
As  those  two  eyes  become  that  heavenly  face  ? — 
Fair  lovely  maid,  once  more  good  day  to  thee : — 
Sweet  Kate,  embrace  her  fdf  her  beauty's  sake. 

Kath.  Young  budding  virgin,  fair,  and  fresh,  and  sweet, 
Whither  away  ?  or  where  is  thy  abode  ? 
Happy  the  parents  of  so  fair  a  child  ; 


THE    SHREW.  195 

Happier  the  man  whom  favorable  stars 
Allot  thee  for  his  lovely  bed-fellow ! 

Pet.  Why,  how  now,  Kate  !  I  hope  thou  art  not  mad : 
This  is  a  man,  old,  wrinkled,  faded,  wither'd — 
And  not  a  maiden,  as  thou  say'st  he  is. 

Kath.  Pardon,  old  father,  my  mistaking  eyes, 
That  have  been  so  bedazzled  with  the  sun 
That  every  thing  I  look  on  seemeth  green ; 
Now  I  perceive  thou  art  a  reverend  father : 
Pardon,  I  pray  thee,  for  my  mad  mistaking. 

The  final  trotting  out  of  his  trained  wife  before  his  friends,  for 
a  wager,  is  worthy  of  the  man  who  "  came  to  Padua  to  wive  it 
wealthily  "— 

Be  she  as  foul  as  was  Florentius'  love, 
As  old  as  Sibyl,  and  as  curst  and  shrewd 
As  Socrates'  Xantippe,  or  a  worse. 

But  she  gets  off  her  little  speech,  with  which,  by  the  by,  no 
one  out  of  the  dangerous  circle  of  Woman's  Rights  can  possibly 
find  fault ;  and  she  receives  her  reward — a  kiss  from  the  husband, 
whom  we  are  sure,  for  all  her  fine  talk,  she  hates  cordially : 

Pet.  Nay,  I  will  win  my  wager  better  yet, 
And  show  more  sign  of  her  obedience — 
Her  new-built  virtue  and  obedience. 
See !  where  she  comes,  and  brings  your  froward  wives 
As  prisoners  to  her  womanly  persuasion. — 
Katharine,  that  cap  of  yours  becomes  you  not ; 
Off  with  that  bauble,  throw  it  under  foot. 

[Katharina  pulls  off  her  cap,  and  throws  it  down. 
********** 

Pet.  Katharine,  I  charge  thee,  tell  these  headstrong  women 
What  duty  they  do  owe  their  lords  and  husbands. 
********** 

Kath.  Fye,  fye  !  unknit  that  threat'ning,  unkind  brow, 
And  dart  not  scornful  glances  from  those  eyes, 


196  THE    SHREW. 

To  wound  thy  lord,  thy  king,  thy  governor ; 

It  blots  thy  beauty,  as  frosts  bite  the  meads — 

Confounds  thy  fame,  as  whirlwinds  shake  fair  buds ; 

And  in  no  sense  is  meet  or  amiable. 

A  woman  mov'd  is  like  a  fountain  troubled, 

Muddy,  ill-seeming,  thick,  bereft  of  beauty ; 

And,  while  it  is  so,  none  so  dry  or  thirsty 

Will  deign  to  sip,  or  touch  one  drop  of  it. 

Thy  husband  is  thy  lord,  thy  life,  thy  keeper, 

Thy  head,  thy  sovereign ;  one  that  cares  for  thee, 

And  for  thy  maintenance — commits  his  body 

To  painful  labor,  both  by  sea  and  land, 

To  watch  the  night  in  storms,  the  day  in  cold, 

While  thou  liest  warm  at  home,  secure  and  safe ; 

And  craves  no  other  tribute  at  thy  hands 

But  love,  fair  looks,  and  true  obedience — 

Too  little  payment  for  so  great  a  debt. 

Such  duty  as  the  subject  owes  the  prince, 

Even  such  a  woman  oweth  to  her  husband  ; 

And  when  she's  froward,  peevish,  sullen,  sour, 

And  not  obedient  to  his  honest  will, 

What  is  she  but  a  foul  contending  rebel, 

And  graceless  traitor  to  her  loving  lord  ? — 

I  am  asham'd  that  women  are  so  simple, 

To  offer  war  where  they  should  kneel  for  peace  j 

Or  seek  for  rule,  supremacy,  and  sway, 

When  they  are  bound  to  serve,  love,  and  obey. 

Why  are  our  bodies  soft,  and  weak,  and  smooth, 

Unapt  to  toil,  and  trouble,  in  the  world, 

But  that  our  soft  conditions,  and  our  hearts, 

Should  well  agree  with  our  external  parts  ? 

Come,  come,  you  froward  and  unable  worms  ! 

My  mind  hath  been  as  big  as  one  of  yours, 

My  heart  as  great — my  reason,  haply,  more, 

To  bandy  word  for  word,  and  frown  for  frown ; 

But  now  I  see  our  lances  are  but  straws, 

Our  strength  as  weak,  our  weakness  past  compare — 

That  seeming  to  be  most  which  we  least  are. 


HELENA. 

Helena  was  the  daughter  of  Gerard  de  Narbon,  a  poor  but 
famous  physician,  who,  at  his  death,  left  her  to  the  motherly  care 
of  the  noble  and  wealthy  Countess  of  Rousillon.  This  lady  having 
lately  lost  her  husband,  who  was  in  high  favor  with  the  king  of 
France,  his  Majesty  despatched  one  of  his  courtiers  to  the  coun- 
tess's palace,  with  commands  for  her  son  Bertram,  that  he  should 
forthwith  accompany  the  messenger  to  court ;  the  young  count 
obeyed  with  alacrity. 

The  good  king  was  at  this  time  suffering  acutely,  with  a  disease 
that  baffled  all  the  skill  of  his  physicians.  Helena — who  was 
hopelessly  in  love  with  Bertram,  and  to  whom  any  suggestion  was 
welcome  that  afforded  her  an  excuse  for  following  him  to  Paris — 
was  moved  by  the  melancholy  case  of  the  king  to  try  the  virtues 
of  a  precious  prescription  left  by  her  father,  and  which  he  had  de- 
clared infallible  in  the  very  disease  of  which  the  French  monarch 
languished. 

So  she  besought  permission  of  her  generous  mistress  to  go  to 
Paris  and  tender  her  services  to  the  king,  which  was  readily 
granted.  At  the  same  time  the  shrewd  countess  took  advantage 
of  the  occasion  to  extort  from  her  gentlewoman  a  confession  of  her 


198  HELENA. 

love  for  the  count ;  nor  did  the  discovery  displease  her,  for  she 
loved  Helena  as  a  daughter,  and  was  well  pleased  at  the  prospect 
of  being  her  mother  in  reality. 

At  court  Helena  encountered  no  little  difficulty  in  inducing  the 
king  to  believe  in  the  efficacy  of  her  father's  prescription ;  but  won 
over  by  her  beauty  and  her  eloquence,  as  much  as  by  her  absolute 
conviction  of  the  infallibility  of  her  remedy,  he  consented  to  give 
it  a  trial,  on  her  own  condition :  that  if  he  should  be  cured,  he 
would  bestow  upon  her  the  husband  of  her  choice — but  if  not,  that 
she  should  die  for  her  presumption. 

Happily  for  Helena,  the  medicine  wrought  a  miracle  :  the  king 
was  restored  to  health  in  a  few  days ;  and  eager  to  discharge  his 
debt  of  gratitude,  he  summoned  the  young  nobles  into  his  pres- 
ence, that  Helena  might  choose  a  husband  from  among  them.  Of 
course,  she  laid  claim  to  Bertram,  who — his  ancestral  pride  out- 
raged at  the  idea  of  marrying  a  "  poor  physician's  daughter,"  his 
mother's  humble  dependant — protested  against  so  arbitrary  a  dis- 
posal of  his  person  and  honorable  name  ;  but  the  king's  word  was 
given,  and  he  commanded  that  the  marriage  should  proceed. 

Thus  Helena  was  made  Countess  of  Rousillon ;  but  that  same 
day  her  husband  sent  her  home  with  a  letter  for  his  mother,  in- 
forming her  of  his  intention  to  leave  the  country  unceremoniously, 
and  protesting  that  until  he  had  no  wife  he  had  nothing  in  France. 
He  added  a  few  cruel  lines  for  Helena,  in  which  he  gave  her  the 
right  to  call  him  husband  only  when  she  could  get  possession  of  a 
certain  ring  that  should  never  leave  his  finger,  and  show  him  a 
son  of  hers  of  which  he  should  be  the  father.  This  unkindness  so 
afflicted  Helena — especially  the  thought  that  she  had  driven  him 
from  his  home — that  she  stole  away  from  her  good  mother-in-law, 
and  set  forth  on  a  pilgrimage  to  St.  Jaques. 

At  Florence  she  sought  shelter  and  rest  beneath  the  roof  of  a 


HELENA  199 

poor  widow,  who  was  accustomed  to  entertain  pilgrims  on  their 
way  to  the  shrine.  Here  she  learned  that  the  widow's  fair  young 
daughter,  Diana,  was  wooed  by  one  Count  Rousillon,  a  country- 
man of  hers ;  but  the  fact  of  his  extraordinary  marriage  being 
known,  Diana,  a  discreet  maiden,  had  virtuously  repulsed  his  dis- 
honorable advances.  Helena,  inspired  by  love,  confided  her  story 
to  the  two  women,  and  procured  their  co-operation  in  her  plot,  by 
money  as  well  as  by  the  persuasive  eloquence  of  her  sorrows. 

Following  her  instructions,  Diana  made  an  appointment  for 
Count  Bertram  to  visit  her  bed-chamber  by  night,  on  which  occa- 
sion Helena,  personating  Diana,  gave  him  the  ring  the  king  had 
bestowed  on  her,  and  obtained  from  him  in  exchange  his  ring, 
"  bequeathed  down  from  many  ancestors."  With  this  trophy  she 
returned  to  France,  accompanied  by  Diana  and  her  mother,  who 
were  necessary  to  the  accomplishment  of  her  design. 

Helena  had  caused  it  to  be  reported  that  she  was  dead ;  where- 
upon Bertram  hastened  back  to  Paris,  in  the  hope  of  procuring  the 
king's  pardon,  and  obtaining  the  hand  of  a  lady  at  court ;  but  his 
majesty  discovered  on  the  count's  finger  the  ring  that  Helena  had 
promised  should  never  leave  hers,  except  for  some  grave  necessity ; 
and  suspecting  that  some  foul  wrong  had  been  done  her  by  her 
husband,  he  instituted  inquiries  which,  somewhat  circuitously,  but 
not  the  less  certainly,  resulted  in  the  happiness  of  this  heroic  lady 
and  devoted  wife,  by  securing  to  her  the  favor  of  her  husband, 
Count  Bertram  of  Rousillon. 


In  Helena  we  have  the  remarkable  case  of  a  very  interesting 
female  character,  which  is,  nevertheless,  deficient  in  one  of  the 
chief  charms  of  womanhood ;  her  virtue  is  above  suspicion ;  her 


200  HELENA. 

mind  well  balanced,  and  marked  by  sterling  good  sense,  rather 
than  brilliancy ;  she  has  ardent  affections,  deep  devotion,  indom- 
itable energy,  and  genuine  modesty — but  with  scarcely  a  trace  of 
that  higher  order  of  delicacy  which  should  be  first  in  such  a  com- 
bination. 

This  formidable  accusation  is  sustained  by  the  simple  fact  that 
Helena  permits  herself  to  be  married  to  a  proud  man  against  his 
will,  even  in  spite  of  his  expressed  abhorrence  of  the  union  and 
dislike  of  herself ;  yet  it  must  be  confessed  that  she  maintains  this 
graceless  position  with  marvellous  tact. 

In  mitigation  of  so  coarse  a  shock  to  the  finest  instincts  of  the 
sex  which  must  "  be  wooed,  and  not  unsought  be  won,"  it  may  be 
argued  for  Helena  that  in  her  self-abandonment  to  a  controlling 
passion,  on  which  her  every  emotion,  every  thought,  are  concentrat- 
ed, all  her  other  feelings,  instincts  even,  are  for  the  time  repudiated, 
except  as  they  tend  towards  the  one  great  aim  of  her  life — the 
happy  consummation  of  her  love. 

Yet  however  intense  and  absorbing  her  passion  may  be,  she  is 
as  guiltless  of  senseless  sentimentality  as  that  very  Hebe  in  love, 
Rosalind  ;  she  has  staked  her  life  on  its  successful  issue,  and  to  that 
end  she  is  ready  to  sacrifice  every  consideration,  short  of  honor. 

She  never,  for  an  instant,  permits  herself  to  entertain  a  doubt 
of  her  ultimate  triumph — because  she  knows  that  her  only  hope 
lies  in  her  own  unwavering  conviction  that  she  is  capable,  in  her- 
self, of  achieving  it.  This  proud  self-reliance  is  a  marked  feature 
of  Helena's  character,  and  is  finely  portrayed  in  her  soliloquy  after 
Bertram's  departure : 

Our  remedies  oft  in  ourselves  do  lie, 
Which  we  ascribe  to  heaven  ;  the  fated  sky- 
Gives  us  free  scope — only  doth  backward  pull 
Our  slow  designs  when  we  ourselves  are  dull. 


HELENA.  203 

What  power  is  it  which  mounts  my  love  so  high — 
That  makes  me  see,  and  cannot  feed  mine  eye  ? 
The  mightiest  space  in  fortune  nature  brings 
To  join  like  likes,  and  kiss  like  native  things. 
Impossible  be  strange  attempts  to  those 
That  weigh  their  pains  in  sense,  and  do  suppose 
What  hath  been  cannot  be.    Who  ever  strove 
To  show  her  merit  that  did  miss  her  love  ? 
The  king's  disease — my  project  may  deceive  me  ; 
But  my  intents  are  fix'd,  and  will  not  leave  me. 

No  heroine  could  desire  a  more  flattering  passport  to  general 
favor  than  that  afforded  by  the  friendship  for  Helena  of  the  noble 
old  countess,  who  is  never  more  staunchly  devoted  to  her  foster- 
child  than  when  she  is  returned  to  her — a  daughter-in-law,  and  a 
bride,  but  worse  than  widowed.  The  closeted  interview  between 
Helena  and  the  countess  is  very  characteristic  of  both  women: 
Helena's  conduct  throughout  is  distinguished  by  candor  and  sim- 
plicity ;  she  exhibits,  at  first,  a  natural  reluctance  to  declare  plainly 
that  she  loves  the  young  Count  of  Kousillon,  but  she  prepares  his 
mother  by  unmistakable  innuendoes  for  a  confession  which,  when 
it  comes,  is  full  of  chaste  dignity : 

•. 
Count.  I  say  I  am  your  mother. 
********** 

JETel.  You  are  my  mother,  madam ;  'Would  you  were 
(So  that  my  lord,  your  son,  were  not  my  brother,) 
Indeed  my  mother ! — or  were  you  both  our  mothers 
I  care  no  more  for  than  I  do  for  heaven, 
So  I  were  not  his  sister  :  Can 't  no  other, 
But,  I  your  daughter,  he  must  be  my  brother  ? 

Count.  Yes,  Helen,  you  might  be  my  daughter-in-law ; 
God  shield  you  mean  it  not !  daughter,  and  mother, 
So  strive  upon  your  pulse.     What,  pale  again  ? 
My  fear  hath  catch'd  your  fondness ;  now  I  see 
The  mystery  of  your  loneliness,  and  find 
Your  salt  tears'  head.     Now  to  all  sense  'tis  gross : 
26 


202  HELENA. 

You  love  my  son ;  invention  is  asham'd, 
Against  the  proclamation  of  thy  passion, 
To  say  thou  dost  not ;  therefore  tell  me  true ; 

Hel.  Your  pardon,  noble  mistress  ! 

Count.  Love  you  my  son  ? 

Hel.  Do  not  you  love  him,  madam  ? 

Count.  Go  not  about ;  my  love  hath  in 't  a  bond 
Whereof  the  world  takes  note.     Come,  come  !  disclose 
The  state  of  your  affection ;  for  your  passions 
Have  to  the  full  appeach'd. 

Hel.  Then  I  confess, 

Here  on  my  knee,  before  high  heaven  and  you, 
That  before  you,  and  next  unto  high  heaven, 
I  love  your  son. 

My  friends  were  poor,  but  honest ;  so 's  my  love. 
Be  not  offended ;  for  it  hurts  not  him 
That  he  is  lov'd  of  me  :  I  follow  him  not 
By  any  token  of  presumptuous  suit ; 
Nor  would  I  have  him  till  I  do  deserve  him — 
Yet  never  know  how  that  desert  should  be. 
I  know  I  love  in  vain,  strive  against  hope  ; 
Yet,  in  this  captious  and  intenible  sieve, 
I  still  pour  in  the  waters  of  my  love, 
And  lack  not  to  lose  still ;  thus,  Indian-like, 
Religious  in  mine  error,  I  adore 
The  sun,  that  looks  upon  his  worshipper, 
But  knows  of  him  no  more. 

Side  by  side  with  this  passionate  picture  we  place  another,  even 
more  intensely  painted ;  its  beauty  is  vouched  for  by  its  universal 
popularity : 

I  am  undone ;  there  is  no  living,  none, 
If  Bertram  be  away.    It  were  all  one 
That  I  should  love  a  bright  particular  star, 
And  think  to  wed  it — he  is  so  above  me  : 
In  his  bright  radiance  and  collateral  light 
Must  I  be  comforted,  not  in  his  sphere. 


HELENA.  203 

The  ambition  in  my  love  thus  plagues  itself; 
Tho  hind  that  would  be  mated  by  the  lion 
Must  die  for  love.    'Twas  pretty,  though  a  plague, 
To  see  him  every  hour — to  sit  and  draw 
His  arched  brows,  his  hawking  eye,  his  curls, 
In.  our  heart's  table — heart  too  capable 
Of  every  line  and  trick  of  his  sweet  favor  ; 
But  now  he's  gone,  and  my  idolatrous  fancy 
Must  sanctify  his  relics. 

Not  less  characteristic  than  her  deportment  with  the  countess, 
is  Helena's  bearing  during  the  very  trying  ordeal  of  the  husband- 
choosing  ;  nothing  can  be  more  modest  than  her  manner  of  forci- 
bly taking  possession  of  her  beloved  Bertram — for  it  amounts  to 
that,  as  she  well  knows : 

I  dare  not  say  I  take  you ;  but  I  give 
Me  and  my  service,  ever  whilst  I  live, 
Into  your  guiding  power. — This  is  the  man  ! 

Yet  she  is  none  the  less  persistent  in  her  purpose,  for  all  his 
scorn  of  her  low  origin,  and  his  assertion  that  he  neither  loves  her 
" nor  will  strive  to  do't" — his  "recantation"  to  the  king's  anger 
being  a  mere  satire,  even  more  insulting  than  his  plain-spoken  re- 
jection. 

Once  married,  however,  Helena  is  all  discretion,  modesty, 
sweetness ;  there  is  a  world  of  plaintive  tenderness  in  her  recep- 
tion of  Bertram's  letter — her  self-reproach  the  more  bitter  because 
in  the  realization  of  her  dearest  hopes  she  finds  only  the  source  of 
endless  sorrow : 

Hel.  Till  I  have  no  wife,  I  have  nothing  in  France. 
Nothing  in  France,  until  he  has  no  wife  ! 
Thou  shalt  have  none,  Rousillon,  none  in  France ; 
Then  hast  thou  all  again.    Poor  lord !  is 't  I 
That  chase  thee  from  thy  country,  and  expose 


204  HELENA. 

Those  tender  limbs  of  thine  to  the  event 

Of  the  none-sparing  war  ?  and  is  it  I 

That  drive  thee  from  the  sportive  court,  where  thou 

Wast  shot  at  with  fair  eyes,  to  be  the  mark 

Of  smoky  muskets  ?     O  you  leaden  messengers, 

That  ride  upon  the  violent  speed  of  fire,  ,  « 

Fly  with  false  aim ;  move  the  still-piercing  air, 

That  sings  with  piercing — do  not  touch  my  lord ! 

Whoever  shoots  at  him,  I  set  him  there  ; 

Whoever  charges  on  his  forward  breast, 

I  am  the  caitiff  that  do  hold  him  to  it ; 

And,  though  I  kill  him  not,  I  am  the  cause 

His  death  was  so  effected.    Better  'twere 

I  met  the  ravin  lion  when  he  roar'd 

With  sharp  constraint  of  hunger ;  better  'twere 

That  all  the  miseries  which  nature  owes 

Were  mine  at  once  :  No,  come  thou  home,  Rousillon, 

Whence  honor  but  of  danger  wins  a  scar 

As  oft  it  loses  all.    I  will  be  gone  ; 

My  being  here  it  is  that  holds  thee  hence  : 

Shall  I  stay  here  to  do 't  ?  no,  no,  although 

The  air  of  Paradise  did  fan  the  house, 

And  angels  offic'd  all.   I  will  be  gone — 

That  pitiful  rumor  may  report  my  flight, 

To  consolate  thine  ea 

We  should  repose  more  faith  in  the  disinterestedness  of  Hel- 
ena's flight  from  her  husband's  home,  if  she  did  not  steer  straight 
for  Florence,  where  she  knows  he  is  quartered,  and  if  she  were  less 
munificently  provided  with  money  and  jewels,  inappropriate  to  the 
estate  of  pilgrims.    But — 

All's  well  that  ends  well. 


d/amku 


ES   >:1C-UTS   j)KEAM,jLQT2,SC3. 


TITANIA 


Titania,  wife  of  Oberon,  was  queen  of  a  band  of  fairies,  who 
held  nightly  revel  in  the  beautiful  wood  "a  league  from  the  town" 
of  Athens. 

An  ancient  law  of  that  city  invested  a  father  with  the  power 
of  dooming  his  daughter  to  death  or  celibacy,  if  she  refused  the 
husband  of  his  choosing ;  accordingly,  Egeus,  a  citizen  of  Athens, 
came  before  Duke  Theseus  and  demanded  that  this  law  be  en- 
forced against  his  daughter  Hermia,  because  she  refused  to  marry 
Demetrius,  whom  he  had  selected  for  a  son-in-law.  In  defence, 
Hermia  urged  that  she  loved,  and  was  betrothed  to,  Lysander ; 
moreover,  that  Demetrius  was  beloved  by  her  dearest  friend,  He- 
lena, for  whom  until  lately  he  had  professed  ardent  affection. 

Notwithstanding  the  justice  of  her  pleas,  Theseus  had  no  right 
to  put  aside  the  law,  and  Hermia  was  allowed  four  days  only — to 
choose  between  death  and  a  life  of  "  single  blessedness,"  in  prefer- 
ence to  marriage  with  a  man  whose  fickle,  faithless  passion  she 
despised. 

Lysander  came  promptly  to  the  rescue  of  his  lady  fair.  He 
proposed  that  she  should  fly  from  her  father's  house  to  the  fairy- 


206  T  I  T  A  N  I  A . 

haunted  wood ;  there  he  would  meet  her,  and  conduct  her  thence  to 
another  city,  where  they  could  be  married.  Hermia  joyfully  accept 
ed  this  timely  suggestion,  and  confided  her  secret  to  Helena,  who, 
for  the  poor  pleasure  of  having  the  company  of  her  recreant  lover 
to  the  wood  and  back  again,  told  Demetrius — knowing  that  he 
would  follow  Hermia,  but  knowing  also  that  it  would  be  in  vain. 

Now,  between  Oberon  and  Titania,  king  and  queen  of  the  fai- 
ries, there  was  at  this  time  pending  a  conjugal  quarrel,  the  cause 
being  a  beautiful  little  Indian  boy  belonging  to  the  queen,  whom 
Oberon  ardently  desired  for  a  page,  but  whom  Titania  firmly  re- 
fused to  give  up.  On  the  very  night  when  the  Athenian  lovers 
agreed  to  meet  in  the  wood,  Oberon  had  made  a  last  appeal  to  his 
wife,  with  no  better  result  than  before ;  and  he  determined  to  pun- 
ish her  for  what  he  considered  her  undutiful  and  contumacious  be- 
havior, and  to  acquire  by  stratagem  what  he  had  failed  to  gain  by 
fair  means  or  foul  words.  So  he  summoned  into  his  presence  a 
fairy  by  the  name  of  Puck,  renowned  for  his  expertness  in  all  mis- 
chievous tricks,  and  commanded  him  to  find  a  little  flower  called 
"  Love  in  Idleness,"  at  the  same  time- confiding  to  him  the  use  to 
which  he  intended  to  put  it : 

Fetch  me  that  flower — the  herb  I  show'd  thee  once ; 

The  juice  of  it,  on  sleeping  eyelids  laid, 

Will  make  or  man  or  woman  madly  dote 

Upon  the  next  live  creature  that  it  sees. 

******* 

*        *        *        Having  once  this  juice, 

I'll  watch  Titania  when  she  is  asleep, 

And  drop  the  liquor  of  it  in  her  eyes? 

The  next  thing  then  she  waking  looks  upon, 

(Be  it  on  lion,  bear,  or  wolf,  or  bull, 

On  meddling  monkey,  or  on  busy  ape,) 

She  shall  pursue  it  with  the  soul  of  love  ; 

And  ere  I  take  this  charm  off  from  her  sisht. 


TITANIA  207 

(As  I  can  take  it,  with  another  herb,) 
I'll  make  her  render  up  her  page  to  me. 

Before  Puck  returned  with  the  flower,  Demetrius  passed  by, 
followed  by  Helena,  whose  love  he  repulsed  so  cruelly  that  Obe- 
ron,  touched  with  compassion,  resolved  to  redress  her  wrongs  by 
laying  the  same  spell  on  Demetrius  that  he  intended  for  Titania. 
Accordingly,  he  commanded  Puck,  when  he  returned,  to  follow 
this  Athenian,  whom  he  would  know  by  his  dress,  and  to  take  care 
to  touch  his  eyes  with  the  magic  juice  just  when  the  object  they 
must  next  rest  upon  would  be  Helena. 

Forthwith  Puck  started  on  his  errand ;  but  it  chanced  that  the 
first  Athenian  he  saw  was  Lysander,  who,  at  a  respectful  distance 
from  Hermia,  was  stretched  on  the  turf  fast  asleep,  as  likewise 
was  the  lady.  So  Puck  anointed  Lysander's  eyes ;  but  when  he 
awoke,  the  first  thing  he  perceived  was  Helena,  who,  deserted  by 
Demetrius,  was  trying  to  find  her  way  out  of  the  wood.  Imme- 
diately his  love  was  transferred  from  Hermia  to  Helena,  and  leav- 
ing his  true  love  still  sleeping,  he  followed  his  new  love  with 
compliments  and  courtship. 

About  this  time,  Theseus,  Duke  of  Athens,  was  on  the  eve  of 
marriage  with  Hippolyta,  queen  of  the  Amazons,  and  a  company 
of  actors  who  were  preparing  "  a  sweet  comedy  "  to  be  performed 
•in  their  august  presence,  in  honor  of  the  nuptials,  assembled  in  this 
wood  to  rehearse  the  play.  It  happened  that  the  spot  selected 
for  this  purpose  was  near  the  "  close  and  consecrated  bower "  of 
Queen  Titania,  wherein  she  now  lay  sleeping.  Oberon,  hastening 
to  play  his  magic  trick  upon  his  wife,  noted  these  "hempen  home- 
spuns," and  selected  Bottom,  a  coarse,  ignorant  weaver,  from 
among  them,  to  be  the  first  object  that  Titania  should  behold  on 
awaking. 

Of   course  the  exquisite  Titania  straightway  doted  on    this 


208  TITAN  I  A. 

"  monster,"  whom  Oberon  had  made  even  more  ridiculous,  by 
placing  an  ass's  head  on  his  brawny  shoulders ;  she  lured  him  away 
from  his  companions,  heaped  upon  him  her  sweet  favors,  and  put 
her  sprites  at  his  command. 

Meantime  Hermia  awoke,  to  find  her  lover  gone ;  and  in  look- 
ing for  him  she  came  upon  Demetrius,  who  at  once  resumed  his 
unwelcome  suit.  Oberon,  passing  that  way,  overheard  their  con- 
versation, and  discovered  the  mischief  Puck  had  done  by  mistak- 
ing Lysander  for  Demetrius ;  but  the  blunder  was  easily  rectified 
by  the  fairy  king,  who  anointed  the  lovers'  eyes  with  his  love- 
juice,  and  then  had  their  respective  ladies  brought  before  them  at 
the  proper  moment. 

Oberon  found  little  difficulty  in  securing  his  page,  now  that  his 
queen's  whole  soul  was  occupied  only  with  Bottom,  the  weaver ; 
and  having  accomplished  his  purpose,  he  took  pity  upon  her  ridic- 
ulous delusion,  and  released  her  from  the  spell.  Then,  all  being 
harmony  again,  Oberon  caused  the  events  of  the  night  to  appear, 
to  the  "  human  mortals "  concerned,  but  as  a  Midsummer  Night's 
Dream. 

Of  course  the  lovers  were  married  according  to  their  hearts' 
desire,  and  the  beneficent  purposes  of  the  "wee  folk:" 

"  Farewell  rewards  and  fairies  ! 

Good  housewives  now  may  say, 
For  now  foule  sluts  in  dairies 

Doe  fare  as  well  as  they ; 
And  though  they  sweepe  their  hearths  no  less 

Than  mayds  were  wont  to  doe, 
Yet  who  of  late  for  cleanlinesse 

Finds  sixepence  in  her  shoe  ?" 


TITANIA.  209 

Had  we  lived  in  the  days  of  a  more  beautiful  and  less  sophis- 
ticated  superstition  than  that  of  this  table-tipping  generation,  we 
had  scarcely  ventured  to  arraign  a  bona  fide  fairy  queen  before 
our  vulgar  tribunal ;  indeed,  as  it  is,  we  have  "  screwed  our  cour- 
age to  the  sticking-point "  of  this  task,  only  by  remembering  that 
we  have  nothing  to  say  that  could  offend  f aerial  majesty,  or  tempt 
its  prompt  revenge. 

Since  those  Swedenborgs  of  the  elfin  faith — Hans  Christian 
Andersen  and  the  Brothel's  Grimm — have  spoken,  no  one  can 
deny  to  the  tricksy  sprites  strongly  marked  individualities,  phys- 
ical and  mental ;  among  no  people  are  the  pure  affections  more 
tenderly  cultivated,  the  unworthy  more  severely  rooted  up — the 
lives  of  most  of  them  being  devoted  to  the  rewarding  of  virtue  and 
the  punishing  of  vice. 

Titania,  however,  is  not  to  be  classed  with  these  moral  econo- 
mists :  she  is  a  sort  of  queen-bee  in  the  fairy  hive  ;  her  sole  busi- 
ness is  to  be  beautiful,  and  to  enjoy  the  beautiful.  She  is  the  per- 
fect fairy  queen — exquisite,  dainty,  luxurious,  self-willed,  capricious, 
coquettish ;  and  thoroughly  royal  in  one  and  all.  In  her  feud  with 
her  husband,  King  Oberon,  she  compels  our  sympathy  through- 
out; she  is  in  the  right,  and  she  maintains  her  position  with 
commendable  firmness  and  dignity.  As  to  the  shameful  trick 
"played  upon  her  delicate  fancy,  we  overlook  the  ridicule  in 
which  it  involves  her  "style,"  to  admire  her  tender  solicitude 
for  her  new  love,  her  graceful  dalliance,  and  her  lavish  hospi- 
tality. 

Though  Titania  is  introduced  to  us  in  the  heat  of  her  tempo- 
rary hostility  to  her  liege  lord,  it  must  be  confessed  that  their  mis- 
understanding, especially  on  her  part,  is  widely  removed  from  the 
vulgar  squabbles  of  "human  mortals."     The  queen's  argument  for 

peace — not  on  her  own  account,  but  because  their  dissension  is 

27 


210  TITAN  I  A. 

fraught  with  consequences  disastrous  to  the  inhabitants  of  Earth- 
is  in  the  highest  degree  lofty : 

Obe.  HI  met  by  moon-light,  proud  Titania. 

Tita.  What !  jealous  Oberon  ?     Fairy,  skip  hence ; 
I  have  forsworn  his  bed  and  company. 

Obe.  Tarry,  rash  wanton  !  Am  not  I  thy  lord  ? 

Tita.  Then  I  must  be  thy  lady.     But  I  know 
When  thou  hast  stol'n  away  from  fairy  land, 
And  in  the  shape  of  Corih  sat  all  day, 
Playing  on  pipes  of  corn,  and  versing  love 
To  amorous  Phillida.     Why  art  thou  here, 
Come  from  the  farthest  steep  of  India  ? 
But  that,  forsooth,  the  bouncing  Amazon, 
Your  buskin'd  mistress,  and  your  warrior  love, 
To  Theseus  must  be  wedded ;  and  you  come 
To  give  their  bed  joy  and  prosperity. 

Obe.  How  canst  thou  thus,  for  shame,  Titania, 
Glance  at  my  credit  with  Hippolyta, 
Knowing  I  know  thy  love  to  Theseus  ? 
Didst  thou  not  lead  him  through  the  glimmering  night 
From  Perigenia,  whom  he  ravished  ? 
And  make  him  with  fair  iEgle  break  his  faith, 
With  Ariadne,  and  Antiopa  ? 

Tita.  These  are  the  forgeries  of  jealousy ; 
And  never,  since  the  middle  summer's  spring, 
Met  we  on  hill,  in  dale,  forest,  or  mead, 
By  paved  fountain,  or  by  rushy  brook, 
Or  on  the  beachy  margent  of  the  sea, 
To  dance  our  ringlets  to  the  whistling  wind, 
But  with  thy  brawls  thou  hast  disturb'd  our  sport. 
Therefore  the  winds,  piping  to  us  in  vain, 
As  in  revenge,  have  suck'd  up  from  the  sea 
Contagious  fogs  ;  which,  falling  in  the  land, 
Have  every  pelting  river  made  so  proud, 
That  they  have  overborne  their  continents : 
******** 

And  this  same  progeny  of  evils  comes 
From  our  debate,  from  our  dissension ; 
We  are  their  parents  and  original. 


TITANIA.  211 

Obe.  Do  you  amend  it  then  ;  it  lies  in  you. 
Why  should  Titania  cross  her  Oberon  ? 
I  do  but  beg  a  little  changeling  boy 
To  be  my  henchman. 

Tita.  Set  your  heart  at  rest — 

The  fairy  land  buys  not  the  child  of  me. 
His  mother  was  a  vot'ress  of  my  order ; 
And,  in  the  spiced  Indian  air,  by  night,  ^ 

Full  often  hath  she  gossip'd  by  my  side, 
And  sat  with  me  on  Neptune's  yellow  sands, 
Marking  the  embarked  traders  on  the  flood. 
But  she,  being  mortal,  of  that  boy  did  die  ; 
And,  for  her  sake,  I  do  rear  up  her  boy ; 
And,  for  her  sake,  I  will  not  part  with  him. 

It  is  as  unnecessary  to  comment  on  the  mean  selfishness  of  Obe- 
ron's  answer  to  her  appeal  in  behalf  of  the  distressed  earth,  as  on 
the  generosity  and  faithful  friendship  that  distinguish  Titania's 
concluding  remarks.    Let  us  peep  at  the  fairy  queen  in  love : 

Tita.  I  pray  thee,  gentle  mortal,  sing  again  ; 
Mine  ear  is  much  enamour'd  of  thy  note — 
So  is  mine  eye  enthralled  to  thy  shape ; 
And  thy  fair  virtue's  force  perforce  doth  move  me, 
On  the  first  view,  to  say,  to  swear,  I  love  thee. 

Hot.  Methinks,  mistress,  you  should  have  little  reason 
for  that ;  and  yet,  to  say  the  truth,  Reason  and  Love 
keep  little  company  together  now-a-days. 


Tita.  Out  of  this  wood  do  not  desire  to  go  ; 
Thou  shalt  remain  here,  whether  thou  wilt  or  no. 
I  am  a  spirit,  of  no  common  rate  ; 
The  summer  still  doth  tend  upon  my  state, 
And  I  do  love  thee :  therefore,  go  with  me  ; 
I'll  give  thee  fairies  to  attend  on  thee ; 
And  they  shall  fetch  thee  jewels  from  the  deep, 
And  sing  while  thou  on  pressed  flowers  dost  sleep  ; 
And  I  will  purge  thy  mortal  grossness  so, 


212  TITAN  IA. 

That  thou  shalt  like  an  airy  spirit  go. — 
Peas-blossom!  Cobweb!  Moth!  and  Mustard-seed ! 


Be  kind  and  courteous  to  this  gentleman ; 
Hop  in  his  walks,  and  gambol  in  his  eyes ; 
Feed  him  with  apricocks  and  dewberries, 
With  purple  grapes,  green  figs,  and  mulberries  ; 
The  honey  bags  steal  from  the  humble  bees ; 
And,  for  night-tapers,  crop  their  waxen  thighs, 
And  light  them  at  the  fiery  glow-worm's  eyes, 
To  have  my  love  to  bed,  and  to  arise  ; 
And  pluck  the  wings  from  painted  butterflies, 
To  fan  the  moon-beams  from  his  sleeping  eyes  : 
Nod  to  him,  elves,  and  do  him  courtesies. 

Come,  sit  thee  down  upon  this  flowery  bed, 
While  I  thy  amiable  cheeks  do  coy, 

And  stick  musk-roses  in  thy  sleek  smooth  head, 
And  kiss  thy  fair  large  ears,  my  gentle  joy. 


Or  say,  sweet  love,  what  thou  desir'st  to  eat. 

JBot.  Truly,  a  peck  of  provender ;  I  could  munch  your 
good  dry  oats.  Methinks  I  have  a  great  desire  to  a 
bottle  of  hay:  good  hay,  sweet  hay,  hath  no  fellow. 

Tita.  I  have  a  venturous  fairy  that  shall  seek 
The  squirrel's  hoard,  and  fetch  thee  new  nuts. 

JBot.  I  had  rather  have  a  handful  or  two  of  dried  peas. 
But,  I  pray  you,  let  none  of  your  people  stir  me  ;  I  have 
an  exposition  of  sleep  come  upon  me. 

Tita.  Sleep  thou,  and  I  will  wind  thee  in  my  arms. 
Fairies,  begone — and  be  all  ways  away. 
So  doth  the  woodbine,  the  sweet  honeysuckle, 
Gently  entwist — the  female  ivy  so 
Enrings  the  barky  fingers  of  the  elm. 
O,  how  I  love  thee  !  how  I  dote  on  thee  ! 

One  glance  at  the  household  habits  of  a  fairy  court,  and  then 
we  shall  have  awakened  from  this  Midsummer  Night's  Dream, 


TITANIA.  213 

which  is  "  like  wandering  through  a  grove  oy  moonlight,"  and 
"  breathes  a  sweetness,  like  odors  thrown  from  beds  of  flowers  • " 

Obe.  I  know  a  bank  whereon  the  wild  thyme  blows, 
Where  ox-lips  and  the  nodding  violet  grows — 
Quite  over-canopied  with  lush  woodbine, 
With  sweet  musk-roses,  and  with  eglantine ; 
There  sleeps  Titania,  some  time  of  the  night 
Lull'd  in  these  flowers  with  dances  and  delight ; 
And  there  the  snake  throws  her  enamell'd  skin, 
Weed  wide  enough  to  wrap  a  fairy  in. 

Tita.  Come,  now  a  roundel,  and  a  fairy  song ; 
Then,  for  the  third  part  of  a  minute,  hence  : 
Some  to  kill  cankers  in  the  musk-rose  buds ; 
Some  war  with  rear-mice  for  their  leathern  wings, 
To  make  my  small  elves  coats ;  and  some  keep  back 
The  clamorous  owl,  that  nightly  hoots,  and  wonders 
At  our  quaint  spirits.    Sing  me  now  asleep  ; 
Then  to  your  offices,  and  let  me  rest. 


SONG. 

I. 

You  spotted  snakes  with  double  tongue, 
TJiorny  hedgehogs,  be  not  seen  ; 

Newts,  and  blind-worms,  do  no  wrong  ; 
Come  not  near  our  fairy  queen  1 


CHORUS. 

Philomel,  with  melody, 
Sing  in  our  sweet  lullaby : 
LuUa,  lulla,  lullaby  !  lulla,  lulla,  lullaby  ! 
Never  harm,  nor  spell,  nor  charm, 
Come  our  lovely  lady  nigh; 
So,  good  night,  with  lullaby  I 


214  TITANIA. 


II. 


Weaving  spiders,  come  not  here  ; 

Hence,  you  long-legged  spinners,  hence  ; 
Beetles  black,  approach  not  near  ; 

Worm,  nor  snail,  do  no  offence  ! 

CHORUS. 

Philomel,  with  melody, 
Sing  in  our  sweet  lullaby : 
Lulla,  lulla,  lullaby  !  lulla,  luUa,  lullaby  I 
Never  harm,  nor  spell,  nor  charm. 
Come  our  lovely  lady  nigh  ; 
So,  good  night,  with  lullaby  I 


( 


■ 


CONSTANCE. 

Constance,  daughter  and  heiress  of  Conan  IV.,  Duke  of  Bre- 
tagne,  was  the  widow  of  Geffrey,  son  of  Henry  II.  of  England,  and 
mother  of  Arthur,  his  heir.  John,  the  younger  brother  of  Geffrey, 
having  usurped  the  English  throne,  Philip  of  France  demanded  its 
restoration  to  the  rightful  king— the  young  Duke  of  Bretagne ;  and 
held  himself  in  readiness  to  maintain  the  boy's  claim  with  force  of 
arms. 

To  chastise  this  insolent  interference  with  his  self-constituted 
authority,  King  John  invaded  France  With  a  large  army.  At  first 
he  was  valiantly  repulsed  by  the  French  and  Austrian  troops; 
but,  after  several  indecisive  battles,  Philip  forgot  his  royal  promise 
to  Constance,  to  defend  the  rights  of  her  son,  and  yielded  to  the 
strong  temptation  of  selfish  interests.  He  concluded  a  peace  with 
King  John,  by  receiving  in  marriage  for  his  son  Louis,  the  Dau- 
phin, Blanche  of  Castile,  a  princess  of  rare  perfections,  and  niece  of 
King  John,  who  dowered  her  with  the  very  territories  that  Philip 
had  demanded  for  Arthur. 

But  in  the  midst  of  the  wedding  feasts  came  a  "  holy  legate  of 
the  Pope,"  commanding  Philip,  on  pain  of  excommunication,  to 
break  his  alliance  with  a  king  who  had  flouted  the  authority  of  the 


216  CONSTANCE. 

Church,  and  set  her  dignitaries  at  defiance,  and  again  to  take  up 
arms  against  him — this  .time,  in  her  name.  Philip  dared  not  dis- 
obey; hut  in  obeying  he  lost  every  thing.  Arthur  was  taken 
prisoner  and  carried  to  England,  leaving  his  wretched  mother  so 
distraught  with  grief  and  disappointment  that  she  "died  in  a 
frenzy  "  shortly  after ;  the  royal  child  himself,  having,  through  the 
humanity  of  his  jailer,  escaped  an  assassination  planned  by  his 
cruel  uncle,  met  his  death,  accidentally,  in  attempting  to  escape 
from  prison. 

Louis,  the  Dauphin,  invaded  England,  and  set  up  a  claim  to 
the  throne  in  the  name  of  his  wife  ;  but  his  expedition  was  unsuc- 
cessful. King  John  dying,  poisoned,  his  son  ascended  the  throne 
as  Henry  III. 


Constance  of  Bretagne  exists  to  our  sympathy  only  in  her  ma- 
ternal relation  ;  in  her  affection  for  her  son,  Arthur,  all  other  emo- 
tions are  swallowed  up ;  in  him  are  concentred  all  her  ambitions, 
hopes,  desires  ;  so  it  is  not  surprising  that  we  forget  the  heiress  of 
a  sovereign  duchy,  and  her  strictly  personal  misfortunes — which, 
alone,  should  suffice  to  invest  her  with  peculiar  interest — to  bestow 
our  pity  upon  the  mother  of  a  fair  young  prince,  despoiled  of  his 
birthright,  and  betrayed  by  those  who  had  promised  to  befriend 
him. 

Her  dramatic  situation — "the  mother-eagle  wounded, and  bleed 
ing  to  death,  yet  stretched  over  her  young  in  the  attitude  of  defi 
ance" — may  be,  critically  considered,  unsurpassed  in  sublimity, 
but  its  painfulness  is  too  unmitigated  to  constitute  it  a  source  of 
pleasure  to  even  the  most  stoical  reader. 

The  spectacle  of  an  utterly  helpless  being — weak  and  defence- 
less only  by  reason  of  her  sex ;  with  no  weapon  but  words,  "  full 


CONSTANCE.  217 

of  sound  and  fury,"  availing  nothing ;  perfectly  conscious  of  her  iin- 
potency,  yet  resisting  desperately  to  the  last — oppresses  the  mind 
with  something  of  its  own  overwhelming  weight  of  forlornness. 
The  only  forms  of  sorrow  to  be  pleasurably  contemplated  in  woman 
are  pious  resignation  and  heroic  fortitude ;  the  violent  passion  of 
grief,  as  "  torn  to  tatters  "  in  the  person  of  Constance,  defeats  it- 
self;  the  mental  exhaustion  consequent  upon  the  effort  to  follow 
it,  is  exactly  similar  to  the  physical  prostration  it  produces  in  its 
victim. 

The  maternal  love  of  Constance,  as  a  dramatic  effect,  is  very  beau- 
tiful ;  but  it  partakes  too  much  of  sentiment,  too  little  of  pure 
instinct,  to  command  our  undivided  admiration ;  we  feel,  as  she  did, 
that  it  depends  for  its  devotion,  in  great  measure,  on  her  son's 
poetic  attributes,  of  beauty,  high  birth,  and  princely  presence — not, 
as  it  should,  on  the  simple,  all-sufficing  hecause — because  he  is  the 
fruit  of  her  womb.  The  following  speech  to  the  boy-prince  illus- 
trates our  meaning,  and  has  left  its  impress  of  unloveliness  on  our 
high  ideal  of  Constance ;  a  mother  after  our  own  heart  could 
never  have  found  it  in  hers  to  give  utterance  to  such  a  libel  on  the 
only  love  which  is  indifferent  to  physical,  moral,  or  mental  perfec- 
tions in  its  object : 

Arth.  I  do  beseech  you,  madam,  be  content. 

Const.  If  thou,  that  bid'st  me  be  content,  were  grim, 
Ugly,  and  sland'rous  to  thy  mother's  womb, 
Full  of  unpleasing  blots  and  sightless  stains, 
Lame,  foolish,  crooked,  swart,  prodigious, 
Patch'd  with  foul  moles  and  eye-offending  marks — 
I  would  not  care,  I  then  would  be  content ; 
For  then  I  should  not  love  thee  ;  no,  nor  thou 
Become  thy  great  birth,  nor  deserve  a  crown. 
But  thou  art  fair ;  and  at  thy  birth,  dear  boy, 
Nature  and  fortune  joined  to  make  thee  great :  « 

Of  nature's  gifts  thou  may'st  with  lilies  boast, 

28 


218  CONSTANCE. 

And  with  the  half-blown  rose.    But  fortune,  O  ! 
She  is  corrupted,  chang'd,  and  won  from  thee  ; 
She  adulterates  hourly  with  thine  uncle  John ; 
And  with  her  golden  hand  hath  pluck'd  on  France 
To  tread  down  fair  respect  of  sovereignty. 
» 

Constance  is  distinguished  by  her  imagination,  the  natural 
vivacity  of  which  is  intensified  by  suffering  till  it  assumes  an 
almost  morbid  predominance  over  every  other  faculty ;  this  exag- 
gerates even  her  desperate  sorrows,  and  colors  every  event  with 
its  extravagance — hyperbole  is  its  natural  language,  and  frenzy  its 
legitimate  realm.  Her  eloquence  is  the  declamation  of  exalted 
passion,  which  can  scarce  find  images  grand  enough  to  express  its 
concentrated  vehemence ;  of  this  we  have  a  fine  example  in  her 
refusal  to  obey  the  summons  of  the  kings,  after  their  ignoble  treaty 
has  betrayed  her  rights : 

Sal  Pardon  me,  madam — 

I  may  not  go  without  you  to  the  kings. 

Const.  Thou  may'st,  thou  shalt,  I  will  not  go  with  thee. 
I  will  instruct  my  sorrows  to  be  proud ; 
For  grief  is  proud,  and  makes  his  owner  stout. 
To  me,  and  to  the  state  of  my  great  grief, 
Let  kings  assemble  ;  for  my  grief's  so  great 
That  no  supporter  but  the  huge  firm  earth 
Can  hold  it  up :  here  I  arid  Sorrow  sit ; 
Here  is  my  throne — bid  kings  come  bow  to  it. 

And  again,  in  her  interview  with  their  perjured  majesties,  when 
they  do,  indeed,  come  to  her  : 

K.  Phi.  By  heaven,  lady  !  you  shall  have  no  cause 
To  curse  the  fair  proceedings  of  this  day ; 
Have  I  not  pawn'd  to  you  my  majesty  ? 
*  Const.  You  have  beguil'd  me  with  a  counterfeit, 

Resembling  majesty — which,  being  touch'd,  and  tried, 


CONSTANCE.  219 

Proves  valueless.    You  are  forsworn,  forsworn : 
You  came  in  armis  to  spill  mine  enemies'  blood, 
But  now,  in  arms,  you  strengthen  it  with  yours ; 
The  grappling  vigor  and  rough  frown  of  wai- 
ls cold  in  amity  and  painted  peace  ; 
And  our  oppression  hath  made  up  this  league  : — 
Arm,  arm,  you  heavens,  against  these  perjured  kings  ! 
A  widow  cries ;  be  husband  to  me,  heavens  ! 
Let  not  the  hours  of  this  ungodly  day 
Wear  out  the  day  in  peace ;  but,  ere  sunset, 
Set  armed  discord  'twixt  these  perjur'd  kings  ! 
Hear  me,  O,  hear  me  ! 

Aust.  Lady  Constance,  peace  ! 

Const.  War !  war !  no  peace !  peace  is  to  me  a  war. 
O  Lymoges !  O  Austria !  thou  dost  shame 
That  bloody  spoil !  Thou  slave,  thou  wretch,  thou  coward ! 
Thou  little  valiant,  great  in  villainy ! 
Thou  ever  strong  upon  the  stronger  side ! 
Thou  fortune's  champion,  that  dost  never  fight 
But  when  her  humorous  ladyship  is  by 
To  teach  thee  safety !  thou  art  perjur'd  too, 
And  sooth'st  up  greatness.    What  a  fool  art  thou, 
A  ramping  fool — to  brag,  and  stamp,  and  swear, 
Upon  my  party !    Thou  cold-blooded  slave, 
Hast  thou  not  spoke  like  thunder  on  my  side  ? 
Been  sworn  my  soldier — bidding  me  depend 
Upon  thy  stars,  thy  fortune,  and  thy  strength  ? 
And  dost  thou  now  fall  over  to  my  foes  ? 
Thou  wear  a  lion's  hide  !  doff  it  for  shame, 
And  hang  a  calf's  skin  on  those  recreant  limbs. 

This  last  speech,  to  Austria,  is  a  glory  of  rage,  contempt,  and 
sarcasm ;  we  can  almost  see  the  archduke  of  fair  promises  "  hiding 
his  diminished  head"  from  the  swelling  storm. 

There  is  something  in  the  bewildered,  helpless  despair  of  Con- 
stance that  reminds  us  of  Lear ;  yet  her  frenzy  is  that  of  a  mind 
distraught,  not  overthrown — she,  herself,  draws  a  fine  distinction 
between  the  two  mental  conditions : 


220  CONSTANCE. 

Thou  art  not  holy  to  belie  me  so; 

I  am  not  mad :  this  hair  I  tear  is  mine  ; 

My  name  is  Constance ;  I  was  Geffrey's  wife ; 

Young  Arthur  is  my  son,  and  he  is  lost : 

I  am  not  mad ; — I  would  to  heaven  I  were  ! 

For  then  'tis  like  I  should  forget  myself; 

O,  if  I  could,  what  grief  should  I  forget ! — 

Preach  some  philosophy  to  make  me  mad, 

And  thou  shalt  be  canoniz'd,  cardinal ; 

For,  being  not  mad,  but  sensible  of  grief, 

My  reasonable  part  produces  reason 

How  I  may  be  deliver'd  of  these  woes, 

And  teaches  me  to  kill  or  hang  myself;  ,--- ■ - 

If  I  were  mad,  I  should  forget  my  son, 

Or  madly  think  a  babe  of  clouts  were  he : 

I  am  not  mad ;  too  well,  too  well  I  feel 

The  different  plague  of  each  calamity. 

But  it  is  not  in  wild  ravings,  bitter  taunts,  lofty  invocations,  or 
logical  arguments,  that  the  eloquence  of  this  unhappy  duchess  lives 
in  our  memory ;  let  us  rather  turn  to  those  simple,  natural  strains 
of  pathos  in  which  she  bewails  her  lost  child — that  universal  lan- 
guage which  goes  straight  to  the  heart  of  the  bereaved  mother, 
whether  in  hut  or  palace,  and  is  understood  alike  by  both,  by  both 
alike  repeated. 

The  "  holy  legate  "  admonishes  her  for  so  immoderately  indulg- 
ing her  sorrow : 

Const.  He  talks  to  me,  that  never  had  a  son. 

K.  Phi.  You  are  as  fond  of  grief  as  of  your  child. 

Const.  Grief  fills  the  room  up  of  my  absent  child, 
Lies  in  his  bed,  walks  up  and  down  with  me, 
Puts  on  his  pretty  looks,  repeats  his  words, 
Remembers  me  of  all  his  gracious  parts, 
Stuffs  out  his  vacant  garments  with  his  form  ; 
Then  have  I  reason  to  be  fond  of  Grief. 
Fare  you  well :  had  you  such  a  loss  as  I, 
I  could  give  better  comfort  than  you  do. — 


CONSTANCE.  221 


And  father  cardinal,  I  have  heard  you  say- 
That  we  shall  see  and  know  our  friends  in  heaven 
If  that  be  true,  I  shall  see  my  boy  again  ; 
For,  since  the  birth  of  Cain,  the  first  male  child, 
To  him  that  did  but  yesterday  suspire, 
Tnere  was  not  such  a  gracious  creature  born. 
But  now  will  canker  sorrow  eat  my  bud, 
And  chase  the  native  beauty  from  his  cheek, 
And  he  will  look  as  hollow  as  a  ghost, 
As  dim  and  meagre  as  an  ague's  fit ; 
And  so  he'll  die  ;  and,  rising  so  again, 
When  I  shall  meet  him  in  the  court  of  heaven 
I  shall  not  know  him :  therefore  never,  never 
Must  I  behold  my  pretty  Arthur  more. 

O  lord !  my  boy,  my  Arthur,  my  fair  son ! 
My  life,  my  joy,  my  food,  my  all  the  world ! 
My  widow-comfort,  and  my  sorrows'  cure  I 


1.',',  ACT    ■*,  3C.3  . 


CORDELIA. 

Cordelia,  the  youngest  of  three  sisters,  was  a  daughter  of 
Lear,  king  of  Britain.  That  venerable  monarch,  weary  of  the 
cares  of  state,  having  almost  fulfilled  his  allotted  time  on  earth, 
determined  to  divide  his  kingdom  between  his  children — two  of 
whom  had  husbands — that  he  might  pass  his  last  days  in  honored 
repose.  The  fond,  foolish  old  father  called  his  daughters  together ; 
and  making  known  to  them  his  inclination  to  share  his  domain 
among  them  according  to  the  affection  they  respectively  enter- 
tained for  him,  he  questioned  the  two  married  princesses  as  to  the 
fervor  of  their  filial  love.  Goneril  and  Regan  replied  with  all  the 
fulsome  flattery  of  mercenary  tongues,  and  so  put  to  the  blush  the 
true-minded  Cordelia,  that  when  it  was  her  turn  to  speak  she  re- 
fused to  acknowledge  any  more  affection  for  her  father  than  her  duty 
compelled.  This  answer  so  incensed  the  choleric  king  that  he  cast 
her  off  utterly,  and  divided  her  portion  between  her  two  sisters. 

There  were  then  at  the  court  of  Britain  two  suitors  for  Corde- 
lia's hand — the  Duke  of  Burgundy  and  the  King  of  France : 
when  the  duke  learned  that  she  would  be  dowerless,  he  withdrew 
his  suit ;  but  the  King  of  France  was  so  touched  by  her  lofty 
spirit,  and  her  forlorn  condition,  that  he  married  her,  and  made 
her  queen  over  his  fair  kingdom. 


224  CORDELIA. 

The  condition  on  which  King  Lear  had  abdicated  his  sovereign 
rights,  in  favor  of  his  daughters  and  their  husbands,  was :  that  he, 
attended  by  a  hundred  chosen  knights,  should  be  entertained  at 
their  palaces  alternately,  while  he  should  retain  the  name  and  all 
u  the  additions  to  a  king." 

It  was  not  long  before  Goneril  found  it  irksome  to  accommo- 
date her  father's  attendants,  and  regarded  them  as  an  unnecessary 
expense  ;  her  own  servants  were  therefore  instructed  to  annoy  his 
majesty  with  petty  indignities  ;  and  when  he  remonstrated,  she  re- 
buffed him  with  a  cool  contempt  that  astounded  him.  Appealing 
from  Goneril  to  Regan,  the  unhappy  father  fared  even  worse  ;  for 
the  latter  co-operated  with  her  sister  to  divest  him  of  all  the  out- 
ward shows  of  state ;  and  at  last  she  drove  him  forth  in  a  howling 
storm  at  night,  when  the  exposure,  added  to  the  sharp  sense  of 
his  children's  ingratitude,  drove  the  poor  old  man  mad. 

He  was  blessed,  however,  in  one  faithful  follower — the  Earl  of 
Kent,  whom  he  had  banished  for  interceding  in  behalf  of  Cordelia, 
but  who,  in  disguise,  had  returned  to  the  service  of  his  beloved 
master.  This  loyal  nobleman  housed  the  king  in  his  own  castle, 
and  sent  letters  to  the  court  of  France  for  Cordelia,  who  was  igno- 
rant of  her  father's  wretchedness.  Hastening,  with  an  army  con- 
tributed by  her  husband,  to  the  rescue  of  her  outraged  parent,  she 
found  him  almost  hopelessly  crazed ;  but  by  kind  nursing  he  was 
restored  sufficiently  to  recognize  and  bless  her.  Unfortunately 
for  the  brave  and  devoted  lady,  her  army  was  defeated  by  the 
superior  force  with  which  Goneril  and  Regan  opposed  it ;  Lear  and 
Cordelia  were  consigned  to  a  prison,  where  she  was  hung,  by  order 
of  Goneril  and  her  paramour ;  and  her  father,  paralyzed  by  this 
last  blow,  breathed  his  last  on  her  beloved  corse. 


CORDELIA.  225 

In  Cordelia  we  have  an  exalted  example  of  pure  filial  devotion,, 
unalloyed  by  any  less  heroic  passion — a  character  every  attribute 
of  which  is  subordinate  to  the  highest  conception  of  duty.  The 
admiration  she  commands  is  entirely  independent  of  the  lighter 
graces,  or  those  pretty  tricks  of  unconscious  coquetry  which  have 
attained  a  legitimate  position  in  the  "  affairs  of  woman ; "  she  is 
a  silent,  shy,  undemonstrative  girl,  quite  outshone  in  her  father's 
court  by  the  "scornful  beauty"  and  the  ready  tongues  of  her 
sisters. 

Compared  with  any  less  perfect,  but  not  less  charming,  lady  of 
this  sisterhood,  Cordelia  will  appear  transcendently  superior,  by 
as  much  as  she  who  follows  the  dictates  of  true  religious  princi- 
ple must  ever  take  moral  precedence  of  the  creature  of  mere  im- 
pulses, whether  of  passion  or  caprice  ;  but  side  by  side  with  Goneril 
and  Regan — those  diabolical  creations,  who  are  women  only  phys- 
ically— she  shines  an  angel  of  light.  It  is  only  by  careful  study 
of  the  few  master-strokes  with  which  Cordelia  is  delineated  that 
we  can  make  out  a  faithful  portrait  of  this  matchless  daughter ;  in 
fact,  throughout  the  moving  record  of  madness  and  crime,  of  which 
she  is  the  heroine,  her  "  heavenly  beauty  of  soul "  is  felt  rather 
than  seen ;  although  she  is  almost  excluded  from  the  action,  her 
purity  is  ever  present  to  the  mind's  eye,  in  dazzling  contrast  to  the 
outer  darkness  of  her  surroundings. 

In  the  first  scene,  where  Cordelia  incurs  her  royal  father's  dis- 
pleasure, she  might,  by  a  superficial  observer,  be  accused  of  sullen 
obstinacy,  in  persisting  to  seem  less  fond  than  we  know  she  is,  at 
heart ;  but  it  must  be  remembered  that  she  is  not  only  disgusted 
with  her  sisters'  deceit,  and  mortified  at  the  doting  credulity  of 
her  father,  but  that  she  has  been  virtually  bribed  to  exceed  even 
their  bombastic  protestations : 
29 


226  CORDELIA. 

*        *        *        *       What  can  you  say,  to  draw 
A  third  more  opulent  than  your  sisters  ?     Speak. 

Her  loyal  soul  revolts  from  such  mockery  of  its  dearest  duty  , 
she  answers  with  simple  truthfulness,  not  devoid  of  a  trace  of  sar- 
casm for  her  sisters'  palpable  lies;  and  even  imposes  restraint 
upon  those  expressions  of  fondness  which  under  other  circum- 
stances would  be  natural  to  her : 

Unhappy  that  I  am,  I  cannot  heave 

My  heart  into  my  mouth :  I  love  your  majesty 

According  to  my  bond ;  nor  more,  nor  less. 

******** 

*****        Good  my  lord, 

You  have  begot  me,  bred  me,  loved  me ;  I 

Return  those  duties  baek  as  are  right  fit — 

Obey  you,  love  you,  and  most  honor  you. 

Why  have  my  sisters  husbands,  if  they  say 

They  love  you  all  ?    Haply,  when  I  shall  wed, 

That  lord,  whose  hand  must  take  my  plight,  shall  carry 

Half  my  love  with  him,  half  my  care,  and  duty ; 

Sure,  I  shall  never  marry  like  my  sisters, 

To  love  my  father  all. 

Lear.  But  goes  this  with  thy  heart  ? 

Cor.  Ay,  good  my  lord. 

Lear.  So  young,  and  so  untender  ? 

Cor.  So  young,  my  lord,  and  true. 

Lear.  Let  it  be  so — thy  truth  then  be  thy  dower  : 
For,  by  the  sacred  radiance  of  the  sun, 
The  mysteries  of  Hecate,  and  the  night — 
By  all  the  operations  of  the  orbs, 
From  whom  we  do  exist,  and  cease  to  be — 
Here  I  disclaim  all  my  paternal  care, 
Propinquity  and  property  of  blood, 
And  as  a  stranger  to  my  heart  and  me 
Hold  thee,  from  this,  forever. 

In  the  next  scene,  in  which  Lear  summons  Cordelia's  suitors  to 
inform  them  of  her  fall  from  his  favor,  and  to  receive  their  final 


CORDELIA.  227 

decision,  her  conduct  is  eminently  characteristic ;  nothing  can  ex- 
ceed in  serene  dignity  and  inherent  honor  her  appeal  to  her  father, 
in  answer  to  her  royal  lover's  amazed  reception  of  this  intelli- 
gence— for  which  the  effect  upon  her  future  husband  is  voucher 
enough : 

France.  This  is  most  strange ! 

That  she,  that  even  but  now  was  your  best  object, 
The  argument  of  your  praise,  balm  of  your  age, 
Most  best,  most  dearest,  should  in  this  trice  of  time 
Commit  a  thing  so  monstrous,  to  dismantle 
So  many  folds  of  favor  !     Sure,  her  offence 
Must  be  of  such  unnatural  degree 
That  monsters  it,  or  your  fore-vouch'd  affection 
Fall  into  taint :  which,  to  believe  of  her, 
Must  be  a  faith  that  reason  without  miracle 
Could  never  plant  in  me. 

Cor.  I  yet  beseech  your  majesty, 

(If  for  I  want  that  glib  and  oily  art, 
To  speak,  and  purpose  not ;  since  what  I  well  intend, 
I'll  do't  before  I  speak,)  that  you  make  known 
It  is  no  vicious  blot,  murder,  or  foulness, 
No  unchaste  action,  or  dishonor'd  step, 
That  hath  deprived  me  of  your  grace  and  favor ; 
But  even  for  want  of  that  for  which  I  am  richer — 
A  still  soliciting  eye,  and  such  a  tongue 
That  I  am  glad  I  have  not,  though  not  to  have  it 
Hath  lost  me  in  your  liking. 
******** 

France.  Is  it  but  this  ?  a  tardiness  in  nature, 
Which  often  leaves  the  history  unspoke 
That  it  intends  to  do  ?  *        *        *        * 

ft******** 

Fairest  Cordelia,  thou  art  most  rich,  being  poor ; 

Most  choice,  forsaken ;  and  most  lov'd,  despis'd  ! 

Thee  and  thy  virtues  here  I  seize  upon : 

Be  it  lawful,  I  take  up  what's  cast  away. 

Gods,  gods !  'tis  strange,  that  from  their  cold'st  neglect 

My  love  should  kindle  to  inflam'd  respect. — 


228  CORDELIA. 

Thy  dowerless  daughter,  king,  thrown  to  my  chance, 
Is  queen  of  us,  of  ours,  and  our  fair  France ; 
Not  all  the  dukes  of  wat'rish  Burgundy 
Shall  buy  this  unpriz'd  precious  maid  of  me. 

In  her  charge  to  her  unnatural  sisters,  at  parting,  she  still  main- 
tains the  calm  majesty  of  demeanor  that  befits  her  grave  misfor- 
tune: 

The  jewels  of  our  father,  with  wash'd  eyes 

Cordelia  leaves  you.    I  know  you  what  you  are  ; 

And,  like  a  sister,  am  most  loath  to  call 

Your  faults  as  they  are  nam'd.    Use  well  our  father : 

To  your  professed  bosoms  I  commit  him ; 

But  yet,  alas  !  stood  I  within  his  grace, 

I  would  prefer  him  to  a  better  place. 

So  farewell  to  you  both. 

With  this,  the  Cordelia  of  an  incorruptible  and  somewhat  rigid 
virtue  disappears,  and  in  her  place  we  have  the  tenderest  child 
that  ever  blessed  a  doting  father.  The  following  extracts  are 
beautifully  illustrative  of  that  steadfast  self-command,  born  of  a 
most  shrinking  modesty,  which  has  become  habitual  with  her,  even 
on  occasions  of  extraordinary  trial,  and  which,  in  later  examples,  is 
too  often  mistaken  for  insensibility,  pride,  or  heartlessness  : 

Kent.  Did  your  letters  pierce  the  queen  to  any  demon- 
stration of  grief? 

Gent.  Ay,  sir ;  she  took  them,  read  them  in  my  presence  ; 
And  now  and  then  an  ample  tear  trill'd  down 
Her  delicate  cheek :  it  seem'd  she  was  a  queen 
Over  her  passion,  who,  most  rebel-like, 
Sought  to  be  king  o'er  her. 

Kent.  O,  then  it  moved  her. 

Gent.  Not  to  a  rage;  patience  and  sorrow  strove 
Who  should  express  her  goodliest.    You  have  seen 
Sunshine  and  rain  at  once  :  her  smiles  and  tears 
Were  like  a  better  day.     Those  happy  smiles, 
That  play'd  on  her  ripe  lip,  seem'd  not  to  know 


CORDELIA.  229 

What  guests  were  in  her  eyes ;  which  parted  thence, 
As  pearls  from  diamonds  dropp'd. — In  brief,  sorrow 
Would  be  a  rarity  most  belov'd,  if  all 
Could  so  become  it. 
•  Kent.  Made  she  no  verbal  question  ? 

Gent.  'Faith,  once  or  twice  she  heav'd  the  name  of  father 
Pantingly  forth,  as  if  it  press'd  her  heart ; 
Cried,  Sisters!  sisters! — Shame  of  ladies!  sisters! 
Kent !  father  !  sisters  !   WJiat  /  P  the  storm  i?  the  night  f 
Let  pity  not  be  believed! — There  she  shook 
The  holy  water  from  her  heavenly  eyes, 
And  clamor  moisten'd : — then  away  she  started, 
To  deal  with  grief  alone. 

But  the  crowning  beauty  of  Cordelia's  character,  as  well  as  one 
of  the  master-pieces  of  this  "best  tragedy,"  is  achieved  in  the  scene 
where,  having  returned  home  to  find  her  father  hopelessly  crazed 
by  his  children's  cruelty,  she  bends,  a  pitying  angel,  over  that  sad 
wreck  of  manhood  and  of  majesty : 

0  my  dear  father !     Restoration  hang 
Thy  medicine  on  my  lips ;  and  let  this  kiss 
Repair  those  violent  harms,  that  my  two  sisters 
Have  in  thy  reverence  made  ! 

Kent.  Kind  and  dear  princess. 

Cor.  Had  you  not  been  their  father,  these  white  flakes 
Had  challeng'd  pity  of  them.    Was  this  a  face 
To  be  expos'd  against  the  warring  winds  ? 
To  stand  against  the  deep  dread-bolted  thunder? 
In  the  most  terrible  and  nimble  stroke 
Of  quick,  cross-lightning  ?  to  watch  (poor  perdu  !) 
With  this  thin  helm  ?    Mine  enemy's  dog, 
Though  he  had  bit  me,  should  have  stood  that  night 
Against  my  fire.    And  wast  thou  fain,  poor  father, 
To  hovel  thee  with  swine,  and  rogues  forlorn, 
In  short  and  musty  straw  ?    Alack,  alack ! 
'Tis  wonder  that  thy  life  and  wits  at  once 
Had  not  concluded  all. — He  wakes ;  speak  to  him. 
Phys.  Madam,  do  you  ;  'tis  fittest. 


230  CORDELIA. 

Cor.  How  does  my  royal  lord  ?  How  fares  your  majesty  ? 

*****        O,  look  upon  me,  sir; 
And  hold  your  hands  in  benediction  o'er  me  : — 
No,  sir,  you  must  not  kneel. 

JLear.  Pray,  do  not  mock  me : 

I  am  a  very  foolish,  fond  old  man — 
Fourscore  and  upward ;  and,  to  deal  plainly, 
I  fear  I  am  not  in  my  perfect  mind. 
Methinks  I  should  know  you,  and  know  this  man — 
Yet  I  am  doubtful ;  for  I  am  mainly  ignorant 
What  place  this  is ;  and  all  the  skill  I  have  + 

Remembers  not  these  garments ;  nor  I  know  not 
Where  I  did  lodge  last  night.  Do  not  laugh  at  me ; 
For,  as  I  am  a  man,  I  think  this  lady 
To  be  my  child  Cordelia. 

Cor.  And  so  I  am,  I  am. 

The  great  Master  lias  not  weakened  Ms  imposing  work  by  a 
single  allusion  to  her  mere  personality ;  let  us  not  then  vulgarly 
descend  to  guess  at  what  he  has  left  veiled,  assured  that  such  inner 
glory  as  Cordelia's  would  diffuse  its  radiance  over  any  but  a  mon- 
strous exterior.  If,  in  conclusion,  we  confess  that  Cordelia  presents 
to  us  few  points  of  congeniality  on  which  we  may  freely  hang 
a  familiar  preference,  the  acknowledgment  can  be  prejudicial  only 
to  ourself ;  for  we  feel  that  to  be  capable  of  worthily  understand- 
ing and  loving  her,  one  must  possess  virtue  as  heroic,  a  heart  as 
pure,  and  a  conscience  as  void  of  offence,  as  her  own. 


Qym  oyU7^, 


rnMT.nv  OF  ERRORS,  JlCT  3,  SC.J  . 


■ 


THE   ABBESS. 

^Emilia,  lady-abbess  of  a  convent  at  Ephesus,  had  been,  during 
her  secular  life,  the  wife  of  JEgeon,  a  wealthy  Syracusan  merchant. 
While  on  a  visit  to  Epidamnum  with  her  husband,  she  became  the 
mother  of  twin  sons,  who  were  marvellously  alike  in  person,  and 
to  whom  they  gave  the  same  name,  Antipholus.  A  poor  woman, 
in  the  inn  where  iEmilia  lodged,  gave  birth  at  the  same  time  to 
twin  sons,  who  also  precisely  resembled  each  other,  and  were 
both  named  Dromio ;  so  iEgeon,  for  the  pretty  sentiment  of  the 
thing,  purchased  them,  with  the  intention  of  bringing  them  up 
with  his  own  boys,  to  be  their  companions  and  servants. 

On  their  way  home  with  the  four  little  ones,  a  terrific  storm 
threatened  to  destroy  the  ship  in  which  they  had  taken  passage  ; 
the  sailors  abandoned  her,  in  the  boats,  and  left  JEgeon  and  his 
helpless  family  to  their  fate.  In  this  extremity  the  poor  gentle- 
man bound  his  wife,  and  one  Antipholus  with  his  accompanying 
Dromio,  to  a  mast,  and  secured  himself  with  the  other  two  children 
in  the  same  manner — so  that  when  the  vessel  sank  the  spars  still 
kept  them  afloat. 

^Emilia  was  separated  from  her  husband  by  the  violence  of  the 
sea,  but  was  rescued  by  some  fishermen.     iEgeon  was  picked  up 


232  THE    ABBESS. 

by  a  ship  which  conveyed  him  to  Syracuse  ;  but  for  many  a  day 
the  fate  of  his  wife  and  son  remained  for  him  a  painful  mystery. 

The  fishermen  who  had  saved  JEmilia  landed  her  in  safety  at 
Ephesus,  but  took  the  two  boys,  and  sold  them  to  a  wealthy  noble- 
man ;  so  the  unhappy  mother — widowed  and  childless,  as  it  seemed 
— entered  a  convent,  of  which  she  eventually  became  the  abbess. 

When  the  Antipholus  who  was  saved  with  his  father  had 
grown  to  manhood,  he  set  out  on  a  journey  with  his  faithful  Dro- 
mio,  to  seek  his  long-lost  mother  and  brother.  Two  years  had  he 
been  absent  from  Syracuse  on  this  almost  hopeless  errand,  when 
his  old  father,  fearing  he  would  lose  him  also,  set  forth  to  find  him 
and  urge  him  to  return. 

iEgeon  had  journeyed  year  after  year  through  distant  coun- 
tries, without  discovering  a  trace  of  his  son,  when  finally  he  came 
to  Ephesus,  and  found  that  by  so  doing  he  had  forfeited  his  life — 
according  to  an  Ephesian  law  which  forbade  a  Syracusan  to  enter 
the  city,  on  pain  of  death. 

The  Antipholus  sold  by  the  fisherman  had  been  adopted  by 
the  duke  of  Ephesus,  and  was  living  in  that  city,  married  to  a 
wealthy  lady  named  Adriana.  The  other  Antipholus,  by  a  happy 
chance,  came  to  Ephesus  in  search  £>f  his  brother,  while  iEgeon  was 
there  under  sentence  of  death ;  and  through  a  bewildering  concate- 
nation of  fortuitous  circumstances,  the  whole  family  were  once  more 
united.  It  is  almost  unnecessary  to  add  that  the  duke  gladly  par- 
doned the  father  of  his  foster-son,  and  rejoiced  with  them  that  re- 
joiced. 

The  Comedy  of  Mtots  turns  chiefly  on  the  ludicrous  mistakes 
arising  out  of  the  personal  resemblance  between  the  two  Antipho- 
luses,  and  the  two  Dromios. 


THE    ABBESS.  233 

The  Abbess  is  a  woman  of  sound  sense,  reliable  judgment,  and 
ready  knowledge  of  human  nature.  As  her  position — attained 
through  personal  merit  alone — indicates,  she  is  of  grave  presence, 
and  held  in  high  esteem  for  her  piety  and  good  works ;  her  char- 
acter is  marked  by  dignified  simplicity,  but  at  the  same  time 
evinces  capacity  for  firm,  decisive  action. 

The  scene  where,  having  given  refuge  to  the  Syracusan  An- 
tipholus,  whom  Adriana  pursues  with  her  servants,  believing  him 
to  be  her  husband,  and  mad,  the  Abbess  "  betrays  "  that  perplexed 
lady  "  to  her  own  reproof,"  finely  displays  the  finesse  so  requisite 
in  her  calling,  and  which  she  possesses  in  an  eminent  degree : 

Abb.  Be  quiet,  people !  Wherefore  throng  you  hither  ? 

Adr.  To  fetch  my  poor  distracted  husband  hence  : 
Let  us  come  in,  that  we  may  bind  him  fast, 
And  bear  him  home  for  his  recovery. 
********** 

Abb.  How  long  hath  this  possession  held  the  man  ? 

Adr.  This  week  he  hath  been  heavy,  sour,  sad, 
And  much,  much  different  from  the  man  he  was ; 
But,  till  this  afternoon,  his  passion 
Ne'er  brake  into  extremity  of  rage. 

Abb.  Hath  he  not  lost  much  wealth  by  wreck  at  sea — 
Buried  some  dear  friend  ?    Hath  not  else  his  eye 
Stray'd  his  affection  in  unlawful  love  ? — 
A  sin  prevailing  much  in  youthful  men, 
Who  give  their  eyes  the  liberty  of  gazing. 
Which  of  these  sorrows  is  he  subject  to  ? 

Adr.  To  none  of  these,  except  it  be  the  last — 
Namely  some  love,  that  drew  him  oft  from  home. 

Abb.  You  should  for  that  have  reprehended  him. 

Adr.  Why,  so  I  did. 

Abb.  Ay,  but  not  rough  enough. 

Adr.  As  roughly  as  my  modesty  would  let  me. 

Abb.  Haply,  in  private. 

Adr.  And  in  assemblies  too. 

Abb.  Ay,  but  not  enough. 
30 


234  THE    ABBESS. 

Adr.  It  was  the  copy  of  our  conference  : 
In  bed,  lie  slept  not  for  my  urging  it ; 
At  board,  he  fed  not  for  my  urging  it ; 
Alone,  it  was  the  subject  of  my  theme  ; 
In  company,  I  often  glanced  it ; 
Still  did  I  tell  him  it  was  vile  and  bad. 

Abb.  And  thereof  came  it  that  the  man  was  mad ; 
The  venom  clamors  of  a  jealous  woman 
Poison  more  deadly  than  a  mad  dog's  tobth. 
It  seems  his  sleeps  were  hinder'd  by  thy  railing  ; 
And  therefore  comes  it  that  his  head  is  light. 
Thou  say'st  his  meat  was  sauc'd  with  thy  upbraidings : 
Unquiet  meals  make  ill  digestions — 
Thereof  the  raging  fire  of  fever  bred ; 
And  what's  a  fever  but  a  fit  of  madness  ? 
Thou  say'st  his  sports  were  hinder'd  by  thy  brawls  : 
Sweet  recreation  barr'd,  what  doth  ensue 
But  moody  and  dull  Melancholy, 
(Kinsman  to  grim  and  comfortless  Despair,) 
And,  at  her  heels,  a  huge  infectious  troop 
Of  pale  distemperatures,  and  foes  to  life  ? 
In  food,  in  sport,  and  life-preserving  rest 
To  be  disturb'd,  would  mad  or  man  or  beast : 
The  consequence  is  then,  thy  jealous  fits 
Have  scar'd  thy  husband  from  the  use  of  wits. 

An  episode  of  the  same  adventure  shows  onr  lady-ahbess  in- 
vested with  her  canonical  authority : 

Good  people,  enter,  and  lay  hold  on  him  ! 

Abb.  No,  not  a  creature  enters  in  my  house. 

Adr.  Then  let  your  servants  bring  my  husband  forth. 

Abb.  Neither ;  he  took  this  place  for  sanctuary, 
And  it  shall  privilege  him  from  your  hands 
Till  I  have  brought  him  to  his  wits  again, 
Or  lose  my  labor  in  assaying  it. 

Adr.  I  will  attend  my  husband,  be  his  nurse, 
Diet  his  sickness ;  for  it  is  my  office, 


THE    ABBESS.  235 

And  will  have  no  attorney  but  myself; 

And  therefore  let  me  have  him  home  with  me. 

Abb.  Be  patient ;  for  I  will  not  let  him  stir, 
Till  I  have  used  the  approved  means  I  have, 
With  wholesome  syrups,  drugs,  and  holy  prayers, 
To  make  of  him  a  formal  man  again : 
It  is  a  branch  and  parcel  of  mine  oath, 
A  charitable  duty  of  my  order ; 
Therefore  depart,  and  leave  him  here  with  me. 

Adr.  I  will  not  hence,  and  leave  my  husband  here  ; 
«       And  ill  it  doth  beseem  your  holiness, 
To  separate  the  husband  and  the  wife. 

Abb.  Be  quiet,  and  depart ;  thou  shalt  not  have  him. 

Yet,  at  the  last,  we  see  that  twenty-five  years  of  self-mortifica- 
tion, and  contempt  of  earthly  ties,  have  failed  to  eradicate  the 
3trong  affections  of  JEmilia,  the  wife  and  the  mother.  Our  sym- 
pathy with  this  Rachel,  who  mourned  for  her  children  because  she 
believed  they  were  not,  is  as  cordial  as  our  congratulations  on  their 
restoration  are  sincere  ;  and  to  her  gracious  invitation  we  reply  in 
the  words  of  the  duke — "  With  all  our  heart,  we'll  gossip  at  this 
feast:" 

Abb.  *        *        *        Vouchsafe  to  take  the  pains 
To  go  with  us  into  the  abbey  here, 
And  hear  at  large  discoursed  all  our  fortunes ; 
And  all  that  are  assembled  in  this  place, 
That  by  this  sympathized  one  day's  error 
Have  suffer'd  wrong,  go,  keep  us  company, 
And  we  shall  make  full  satisfaction.' — 
Twenty-five  years  have  I  but  gone  in  travail 
Of  you,  my  sons ;  nor,  till  this  present  hour, 
My  heavy  burdens  are  delivered : — 
The  duke,  my  husband,  and  my  children  both, 
And  you,  the  calendars  of  their  nativity, 
Go  to  a  gossip's  feast,  and  go  with  me ; 
After  so  long  grief,  such  nativity ! 


d^Z€€^l 


KATHARINE  OF  ARRAGOIN. 

Queen  Katharine,  of  sorrowful  memory,  was  the  daughter  of 
Ferdinand,  king  of  Arragon,  and  first  wife  of  the  infamous  Henry 
VIII.  of  England.  In  her  seventeenth  year  she  was  married  to 
Arthur,  prince  of  Wales,  the  eldest  son  of  Henry  YH. ;  but  he 
died  a  few  months  after;  and  her  royal  father-in-law,  anxious  to 
secure  the  alliance,  as  well  as  the  magnificent  dowry,  of  the  Infanta, 
procured  a  dispensation  from  the  Pope  to  betroth  her  to  his  second 
son,  Henry,  then  a  child  of  twelve  years. 

This  marriage  was  consummated  five  years  later,  when  Henry 
had  ascended  the  throne.  Katharine  was  six  years  older  than  her 
boy-husband,  and  they  possessed  not  a  point  of  character  in  com- 
mon ;  yet  he  was  devotedly  attached  to  her,  and  they  had  lived  in 
undisturbed  harmony  for  nearly  twenty  years,  when  the  beautiful 
Anne  Bullen  came  to  court,  as  maid  of  honor  to  the  queen. 

Henry  was  fascinated  by  this  lady's  charms,  and  as  she  was 
proof  against  a  dishonorable  suit,  he  proceeded  to  rid  himself  of 
Katharine  by  divorce — pretending  that  his  conscience  would  no 
longer  permit  him  to  cohabit  with  his  brother's  widow,  and  that 
his  marriage  with  her  was  illegal. 

The  wretched  queen  opposed  this  contemplated  degrading  of 


238        KATHARINE  OF  ARRAGON. 

herself  and  daughter  with  all  the  spirit  and  pertinacity  of  her 
Spanish  blood ;  but  the  divorce,  which  to  the  last  she  refused  to 
acknowledge,  was  granted  by  Archbishop  Cranmer,  in  open  con- 
tempt of  the  Pope's  authority ;  and  Anne  Bullen,  whom  Henry 
had  secretly  married  previous  to  that  decision,  was  crowned  at 
Westminster  with  magnificent  ceremony. 

The  play  of  King  Henry  VIII.,  of  which  Katharine  is  the  he- 
roine, extends  through  about  twelve  years  of  his  abominable  reign, 
commencing  with  the  disgrace  of  the  Duke  of  Buckingham,  and 
ending  with  the  christening  of  Elizabeth,  infant  daughter  of  Anne 
Bullen,  previous  to  which,  by  an  allowable  anachronism,  the  death 
of  the  heart-broken  queen  occurs. 


The  Katharine  of  King  Henry  VIII  is,  almost  without  doubt, 
a  faithful  portrait  of  the  unhappy  lady  whose  virtues  and  wrongs 
command  a  tribute  of  pity  from  all  true  and  tender  hearts. 

Apart  from  her  overweening  pride  of  birth,  and  jealous  exac- 
tion of  the  homage  due  to  her  exalted  rank,  which  was  engendered 
in  her  Castilian  blood — aside  from  her  austere  and  narrow-minded 
bigotry,  the  result  of  a  rigorous  education — Katharine  was  re- 
markable for  her  quiet,  domestic  virtues,  conjugal  devotion,  simple 
tastes,  and  genuine  piety.  She  was  not  endowed  with  the  brilliant 
mental  gifts  of  her  mother,  the  famous  Isabella ;  but  that  her  in- 
tellect was  by  no  means  of  low  order  is  proved  by  the  decided 
influence  she  exerted  over  her  violent  husband,  and  by  the  confi- 
dence with  which,  in  his  absence,  he  intrusted  to  her  judgment 
affairs  of  national  importance. 

In  his  portrait  of  Katharine,  Shakspeare  has  followed  historical 
records  for  all  personal  details,  with  the  most  conscientious  exact- 


KATHARINE  OF  ARRAGON.        23D 

ness,  depending  for  effect  simply  on  the  unembellished  story  of  her 
misfortunes ;  in  many  of  her  speeches  the  words  are  the  very 
same  imputed  to  her  by  the  old  chroniclers. 

The  queen  first  appears  on  the  scene  of  action  in  all  the  enjoy- 
ment of  acknowledged  dignities,  and  her  royal  husband's  respect 
and  favor  ;  her  appeal  to  Henry  in  behalf  of  his  people,  mercilessly 
taxed  by  Wolsey,  which  is  granted  even  before  it  is  concluded,  is 
a  natural  emanation  from  her  strict  integrity,  her  kindness  of  heart, 
and  her  sound  judgment.  But  our  sympathies  for  her  are  not 
fairly  aroused  until,  stripped  of  all  the  insignia  of  her  state,  all  the 
honors  of  her  chaste  matronhood,  she  stands  arraigned  for  trial, 
one  of  the  most  pitiful  objects  in  history — the  devoted  wife  of 
twenty  years'  fidelity,  the  mother  of  many  children,  repudiated 
by  her  husband  for  no  more  honorable  reason  than  the  gratification 
of  a  new  and  illicit  passion. 

The  perfectly  natural  pathos  of  her  address  to  the  king,  on 
this  occasion,  is  exquisite,  even  as  a  merely  dramatic  effect,  but 
doubly  touching  in  that  it  is  a  faithful  paraphrase  of  the  very 
words  uttered  by  the  queen  in  her  own  defence  : 

Sir,  I  desire  you  do  me  right  and  justice, 

And  to  bestow  your  pity  on  me ;  for 

I  am  a  most  poor  woman,  and  a  stranger, 

Born  out  of  your  dominions — having  here 

No  judge  indifferent,  nor  no  more  assurance 

Of  equal  friendship  and  proceeding.    Alas,  sir, 

In  what  have  I  offended  you  ?  what  cause 

Hath  my  behavior  given  to  your  displeasure, 

That  thus  you  should  proceed  to  put  me  off, 

And  take  your  good  grace  from  me  ?    Heaven  witness, 

I  have  been  to  you  a  true  and  humble  wife, 

At  all  times  to  your  will  conformable — 

Ever  in  fear  to  kindle  your  dislike — 

Yea,  subject  to  your  countenance,  glad,  or  sorry, 

As  I  saw  it  inclin'd.     When  was  the  hour 


240  KATHARINE    OF    AUKAGON. 

I  over  contradicted  your  desire, 

Or  made  it  not  mine  too  ?    Or  which  of  your  friends 

Havo  I  not  strove  to  love,  although  I  know 

lit-  wero  mine  enemy?     What  friend  of  mine 

That  had  to  him  dcriv'd  your  anger,  did  I 

Continuo  in  my  liking  ?  nay,  gavo  notice 

Ho  was  from  thence  discharg'd  ?    Sir,  call  to  mind 

That  I  havo  been  your  wife,  in  this  obedience, 

Upward  of  twenty  years,  and  havo  been  blest 

With  many  children  by  you ;  if,  in  the  course 

And  process  of  this  time,  you  can  report, 

And  provo  it  too,  against  mine  honor  aught, 

My  bond  to  wedlock,  or  my  love  and  duty, 

Against  your  sacred  person — in  God's  namo, 

Turn  mo  away,  and  let  tho  foul'st  contempt 

Shut  door  upon  mo  ;  and  so  give  mo  up 

To  tho  sharpest  kind  of  justice 

In  characteristic  contrast  to  this  is  her  conference  with  Cardi- 
nal Wolsey,  wherein,  in  spite  of  the  severe  discipline  of  her  daily 
life,  her  hot  temper  gets  the  better  of  her  self-control,  and  re- 
lieves its  virtuous  indignation  in  rebukes  as  scathing  as  they  are 
shrewd : 

Lord  cardinal, 
To  you  I  speak. 

*        •        *        •        •        I  do  beliove, 
Induc'd  by  potent  circumstances,  that 
You  aro  mine  enemy ;  and  mako  my  challenge— 
You  shall  not  bo  my  judge ;  for  it  is  you 
Have  blown  this  coal  betwixt  my  lord  and  mo, — 
Which  God's  dew  quench! — Therefore,  I  say  again, 
I  utterly  abhor,  yea,  from  my  soul 
Refuso  you  for  my  judgo,  whom,  yet  once  more, 
I  hold  my  most  malicious  foo,  and  think  not 
At  all  a  friend  to  truth. 

Wol.  I  do  profess 

You  speak  not  liko  yourself,  who  ever  yet 
Have  stood  to  charity,  and  display'd  the  effects 


KATHARINE  OF  ARUAGON.        241 

Of  disposition  gentle,  and  of  wisdom 

O'ertopping  woman's  power.    Madam,  you  do  mo  wrong : 

I  have  no  spleen  against  you.        *        *        *        * 

Q.  Kath.  My  lord,  my  lord, 

I  am  a  simple  woman,  much  too  weak 
To  oppose  your  cunning.    You  are  meek,  and  huml*l< 

mouth'd ; 
You  sign  your  place  and  calling  in  lull  seeming 
With  meekness  and  humility ;  but  your  heart 
Is  cramm'd  with  arrogancy,  spleen,  and  pride. 
You  have,  by  fortune,  and  his  highness'  favors, 
Gone  slightly  o'er  low  steps ;  and  now  are  mounted 
Where  powers  are  your  retainers ;  and  your  words, 
Domestics  to  you,  servo  your  will,  as 't  please 
Yourself  pronounce  their  office.    I  must  tell  you, 
You  tender  more  your  person's  honor  than 
Your  high  profession  spiritual ;  that  again 
I  do  refuse  you  for  my  judge  ;  and  here, 
Before  you  all,  appeal  unto  the  Pope, 
To  bring  my  whole  cause  'fore  his  holiness, 
And  to  be  judg'd  by  him. 

Iii  the  scene  where  hIic  gives  audience  to  the  Cardinals,  Wo  I 
and  Campeius  (Campeggio),  her  individuality,  with  all  its  strong 
points   of  contrast,  is  adtnirably  delineated — her  simple,   house- 
wifely habits  opposed  to  her  jealous  exaction  of  the  honors  wlii<  li 
are  her  birthright : 

Q.Kath         ****** 
*****        I  was  set  at  work 
Among  my  maids ;  full  little,  God  knows,  looking 
Either  for  such  men,  or  such  business. 
For  her  sake  that  I  have  been,  (for  I  feel 
The  last  fit  of  my  greatness,)  good  your  graces, 
Let  me  have  time  and  counsel  for  my  cause  ; 

Alas !  I  am  a  woman,  friendless,  hopeless. 

******** 

******** 

Cam.  I  would  your  grace 

Would  leave  your  griefs,  and  take  my  counsel. 
31 


242        KATHARINE  OF  ARRAGON. 

Q.  Kath.  How,  sir  ? 

Cam.  Put  your  main  cause  into  the  king's  protection  ; 
He's  loving,  and  most  gracious ;  'twill  be  much 
Both  for  your  honor  better,  and  your  cause ; 
For  if  the  trial  of  the  law  o'ertake  you, 
You'll  part  away  disgrac'd. 

Wbl.  He  tells  you  rightly. 

Q.  Kath.  Ye  tell  me  what  ye  wish  for  both,  my  ruin. 
Is  this  your  Christian  counsel  ?     Out  upon  ye ! 
Heaven  is  above  all  yet ;  there  sits  a  judge 
That  no  king  can  corrupt. 

Gam.  Your  rage  mistakes  us. 

Q.  Kath.  The  more  shame  for  ye ;  holy  men  I  thought  ye — 
Upon  my  soul,  two  reverend  cardinal  virtues ; 
But  cardinal  sins,  and  hollow  hearts,  I  fear  ye  : 
Mend  them,  for  shame,  my  lords.    Is  this  your  comfort — 
The  cordial  that  ye  bring  a  wretched  lady, 
A  woman  lost  among  ye,  laugh'd  at,  scom'd  ? 
********* 

Woe  upon  ye, 
And  all  such  false  professors !     Would  ye  have  me 
(If  you  have  any  justice,  any  pity — 
If  ye  be  any  thing  but  churchmen's  habits) 
Put  my  sick  cause  into  his  hands  that  hates  me  ? 

And  this  fearless  denunciation  of  the  hypocrisy  of  her  saintly 
visitors,  who  would  persuade  her  to  relinquish  her  pretensions  as 
queen-consort,  is  again  contrasted  with  the  most  pitiful  self-con- 
templation : 

Alas  !  he  has  banish'd  me  his  bed  already — 

His  love,  too  long  ago :         *        *        * 

*        *        *    Have  I  liv'd  thus  long — (let  me  speak  myself, 

Since  virtue  finds  no  friends,) — a  wife,  a  true  one — 

A  woman  (I  dare  say,  without  vain-glory,) 

Never  yet  branded  with  suspicion  ? 

Have  I  with  all  my  full  affections 

Still  met  the  king,  lov'd  him  next  heaven,  obey'd  him, 

Been,  out  of  fondness,  superstitious  to  him, 

Almost  forgot  my  prayers  to  content  him  ? 


KATHARINE  OF  ARRAGON.        243 

And  am  I  thus  rewarded?     'Tis  not  well,  lords. 
Bring  me  a  constant  woman  to  her  husband, 
One  that  ne'er  dream'd  a  joy  beyond  his  pleasure, 
And  to  that  woman,  when  she  has  done  most, 
Yet  will  I  add  an  honor, — a  great  patience. 

'Would  I  had  never  trod  this  English  earth, 
Or  felt  the  flatteries  that  grow  upon  it ! 
Ye  have  angels'  faces,  but  Heaven  knows  your  hearts. 
"What  will  become  of  me  now,  wretched  lady  ? 
I  am  the  most  unhappy  woman  living, — 
Sbipwreck'd  upon  a  kingdom  where  no  pity, 
No  friends,  no  hope  ;  no  kindred  weep  for  me^ 
Almost  no  grave  allow'd  me  :— Like  the  lily, 
That  once  was  mistress  of  the  field,  and  flourish'd, 
I'll  hang  my  head,  and  perish. 

Katharine's  estimate  of  the  popular  feeling  with  regard  to  her- 
self was  not  altogether  just  to  English  hearts;  her  cause  elicited 
much  sympathy,  much  tender  pity — especially  among  the  women, 
who  in  her  wrongs  saw  their  own  rights  threatened — but  it  was 
timid  and  unavailing.  Her  virtues  were  universally  acknowledged ; 
and  of  two  beautiful  tributes  to  her  worth,  the  first,  which  Shak- 
speare  has  ascribed  to  her  husband,  is  historically  attested : 


That  man  i'  the  world  who  shall  report  he  has 
A  better  wife,  let  him  in  nought  be  trusted 
For  speaking  false  in  that.    Thou  art,  alone, 
(If  thy  rare  qualities,  sweet  gentleness, 
Thy  meekness  saint-like,  wife-like  government, 
Obeying  in  commanding, — and  thy  parts, 
Sovereign  and  pious  else,  could  speak  thee  out,) 
The  queen  of  earthly  queens : — She  is  noble  born  ; 
And  like  her  true  nobility  she  has 
Carried  herself  towards  me. 

He  counsels  a  divorce — a  loss  of  her 
That,  like  a  jewel,  has  hung  twenty  years 


244        KATHARINE  OF  ARRAGON. 

About  his  neck,  yet  never  lost  her  lustre — 
Of  her  that  loves  him  with  that  excellence 
That  angels  love  good  men  with—even  of  her 
That,  when  the  greatest  stroke  of  fortune  falls, 
Will  bless  the  king. 

The  death  of  Queen  Katharine — who  lives  to  see  her  beautiful 
supplanter  elevated  to  the  throne  she  humbly  waited  on,  and  her 
own  daughter,  Mary,  iUegitimized  to  make  way  for  new  heirs — is 
full  of  majestic  pathos.  Her  long  probation  of  trial,  which  in  a 
less  heroic  woman  would  have  subdued  every  vestige  of  pride,  had 
served  but  to  intensify  her  ruling  passion,  fulfilling  her  own  words : 
"  nothing  but  death  shall  e'er  divorce  my  dignities." 

Still  constant  in  her  duty  and  grave  affection  to  Henry,  she 
dictates  a  farewell  letter  to  him,  over  which  even  he,  monster  as 
he  is,  sheds  tears ;  and  having  carefully  instructed  her  women  as 
to  their  last  sad  offices,  she  gives  up  her  troubled  ghost: 

I  thank  you,  honest  lord.    Remember  me 
In  all  humility  unto  his  highness : 
Say  his  long  trouble  now  is  passing 
Out  of  this  world ;  tell  him  in  death  I  bless'd  him, 
For  so  I  will. — Mine  eyes  grow  dim. — Farewell, 
My  lord  ! — Griffith,  farewell ! — Nay,  Patience, 
You  must  not  leave  me  yet.     I  must  to  bed  ; 
Call  in  more  women. — When  I  am  dead,  good  wench, 
Let  me  be  used  with  honor ;  strew  me  over 
With  maiden  flowers,  that  all  the  world  may  know     • 
I  was  a  chaste  wife  to  my  grave  ;  embalm  me, 
Then  lay  me  forth ;  although  unqueen'd,  yet  like 
A  queen,  and  daughter  to  a  king,  inter  me. 
I  can  no  more. —  *        *        *        * 

********  * 

Pat.  Do  you  note 

How  much  hex  grace  is  alter'd  on  a  sudden — 
How  long  her  face  is  drawn  ?    How  pale  she  looks, 
And  of  an  earthly  cold !     Mark  you  her  eyes  ? 

Grif.  She  is  going,  wench ;  pray,  pray  ! 


y^z^z/  Qyd^&m/ 


ANNE   BULLEN. 

Anne  Bullen  was  the  daughter  of  Sir  Thomas  Bulleu,  and 
second  wife  to  Henry  VIII.  of  England.  While  still  very  young, 
she,  as  maid  of  honor,  accompanied  Henry's  sister,  the  Princess 
Mary,  to  France,  when  the  latter  was  united  to  Louis  XII. ;  and 
afterwards  she  served  in  the  same  capacity  in  the  households  of 
several  royal  ladies  of  that  country.  On  returning  home  she  was 
appointed  to  attend  on  Queen  Katharine  of  Arragon,  and  at  once 
entered  upon  her  elegant  duties. 

In  the  story  of  Henry's  first  wife,  Katharine,  we  have  told  how 
Anne  supplanted  her  mistress  in  the  affections  of  her  husband ; 
and  how,  for  her  sake,  the  Spanish  woman  was  put  away,  and  the 
famous  court-beauty  crowned  queen.  Of  this  marriage  was  born 
Elizabeth,  with  whose  christening  the  play  of  King  Henry  VIII. 
concludes. 

Anne  Bullen's  supremacy  over  the  fickle  mind  of  her  royal 
husband  was  of  but  short  duration ;  for  she,  in  her  turn,  was  sup- 
planted by  one  of  her  maids  of  honor,  Jane  Seymour.  Anne  was 
accused  of  infidelity,  tried,  and  condemned  to  die  ;  she  suffered  on 
the  scaffold,  only  a  few  months  after  the  death  of  Katharine. 


246  ANNE    BULLEN. 

Anne  Bullen  reminds  us  of  one  of  those  rarer  hot-house  plants, 
which,  perfected  in  an  artificial  atmosphere,  exposed  only  to  influ- 
ences quite  foreign  to  their  nature,  still  retain  much  of  their  origi 
ual  freshness  and  perfume.  Her  whole  life,  from  childhood,  was 
passed  amid  the  dissolute  surroundings,  the  unwholesome  pleasures, 
the  empty  etiquette  of  a  court ;  she  was  surpassingly  beautiful, 
gay,  fascinating,  witty.  While  yet  a  young  woman — of  twenty- 
five  or  thereabouts — she  came  to  be  maid  of  honor  to  Katharine, 
fresh  from  the  careless  coquetries  and  the  lax  principles  of  the 
French  court,  where  she  had  been  a  favorite  belle ;  to  Henry, 
therefore,  her  sparkling  vivacity  presented  a  welcome  contrast  to 
the  distasteful  austerity  of  his  wife. 

Yet  with  all  her  vanity,  her  love  of  display,  her  giddy  enjoy- 
ment of  the  homage  her  charms  commanded,  this  our  Anne  Bul- 
len is  gentle,  compassionate,  affectionate.  Shakspeare  has,  with 
exceeding  skill,  introduced  her  plaintively  commenting  on  the 
much  agitated  question  of  the  queen's  divorce,  of  which  she  already 
suspects  herself  the  cause,  though  she  dare  not,  for  an  instant,  pon 
der  the  certain  consequences,  so  much  does  she  desire,  yet  fear 
them*  It  is  noticeable  that  Anne  does  not  sympathize  with  her 
mistress  in  her  conjugal  distress — as  Would  be  most  natural  to  a 
young  and  love-inspiring  woman — but  only  in  her  loss  of  position : 

Anne.  Not  for  that  neither ; — here's  the  pang  that  pinches : 
His  highness  having  liv'd  so  long  with  her ;  and  she 
So  good  a  lady,  that  no  tongue  could  ever 
Pronounce  dishonor  of  her, — Tby  my  life, 
She  never  knew  harm-doing  !— 0  now,  after 
So  many  courses  of  the  sun  enthron'd, 
Still  growing  in  a  majesty  and  pomp — the  which 
To  leave  is  a  thousand-fold  more  bitter  than 
'Tis  sweet  at  first  to  acquire — after  this  process 
To  give  her  the  avaunt !  it  is  a  pity 
Would  move  a  monster. 


ANNE    BULLEN.  247 

Old  L.  Hearts  of  most  hard  temper 

Melt  and  lament  for  her. 

Anne.  O,  God's  will !  much  better 

She  had  never  known  pomp :  though  it  be  temporal, 
Yet,  if  that  quarrel  fortune  do  divorce 
It  from  the  bearer,  'tis  a  sufferance,  panging 
As  soul  and  body's  severing. 

Old  L.  Alas,  poor  lady ! 

She's  a  stranger  now  again. 

Anne.  So  much  the  more 

Must  pity  drop  upon  her.    Verily, 
I  swear,  'tis  better  to  be  lowly  born, 
And  range  with  humble  livers  in  content, 
Than  to  be  perk'd  up  in  a  glistering  grief, 
And  wear  a  golden  sorrow. 

*        *        *        *        *  *  * 

By  my  troth, 
I  would  not  be  a  queen ! 

Old  L.  Beshrew  me,  I  would — 

And  so  would  you, 
For  all  this  spice  of  your  hypocrisy : 
You,  that  have  so  fair  parts  of  woman  on  you, 
Have  too  a  woman's  heart,  which  ever  yet 
Affected  eminence,  wealth,  sovereignty — 
Which,  to  say  sooth,  are  blessings,  and  which  gifts 
(Saving  your  mincing)  the  capacity 
Of  your  soft  cheveril  conscience  would  receive, 
If  you  might  please  to  stretch  it. 

Anne.  Nay,  good  troth, — 

OldL.  Yes,  troth,  and  troth ! — You  would  not  be  a  queen  ? 

Anne.  No,  not  for  all  the  riches  under  heaven. 

Old  L.  'Tis  strange :  a  three-pence  bowed  would  hire  me, 
Old  as  I  am,  to  queen  it. 

And  this  is  not  hypocrisy,  but  a  manifestation  of  weakness — 
when  we  consider  "  what  follows  " — far  more  culpable  in  its  results. 
Even  as  Anne  is  conversing  with  the  Old  Lady,  the  lord  chamber- 
lain waits  on  her,  to  bestow  a  title  upon  her : 


248  ANNE    BULLEN. 

Cham.  Good  morrow,  ladies.    What  were 't  worth  to  know 
The  secret  of  your  conference  ? 

Anne.  My  good  lord, 

Not  your  demand ;  it  values  not  your  asking : 
Our  mistress'  sorrows  we  were  pitying. 

Cham.  It  was  a  gentle  business,  and  becoming 
The  action  of  good  women.     There  is  hope 
All  will  be  well. 

Anne.  Now  I  pray  God,  amen ! 

Cham.  You  bear  a  gentle  mind,  and  heavenly  blessings 
Follow  such  creatures.     That  you  may,  fair  lady, 
Perceive  I  speak  sincerely,  and  high  note's 
Ta'en  of  your  many  virtues,  the  king's  majesty 
Commends  his  good  opinion  to  you,  and 
Does  purpose  honor  to  you,  no  less  flowing 
Than  marchioness  of  Pembroke  ;  to  which  title 
A  thousand  pound  a-year,  annual  support, 
Out  of  his  grace  he  adds. 

Anne.  I  do  not  know 

What  kind  of  my  obedience  I  should  tender  ; 
More  than  my  all  is  nothing ;  nor  my  prayers 
Are  not  words  duly  hallow'd,  nor  my  wishes 
More  worth  than  empty  vanities ;  yet  prayers,  and  wishes, 
Are  all  I  can  return.     'Beseech  your  lordship, 
Vouchsafe  to  speak  my  thanks,  and  my  obedience, 
As  from  a  blushing  handmaid  to  his  highness — 
Whose  health  and  royalty  I  pray  for. 

Cham.  Lady, 

I  shall  not  fail  to  approve  the  fair  conceit 

The  king  hath  of  you. — I  have  perus'd  her  well ! 

[Aside. 

Beauty  and  honor  in  her  are  so  mingled 

That  they  have  caught  the  king.        *         *        * 
*        *        * 

OUL.    * 
The  marchioness  of  Pembroke  ! 
A  thousand  pounds  a-year,  for  pure  respect ! 
No  other  obligation:  By' my  life, 
That  promises  more  thousands  !  Honor's  train 
Is  longer  than  his  foreskirt.    By  this  time, 


* 

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* 

* 

* 

* 

* 

* 

* 

* 

* 

* 

* 

* 

* 

* 

* 

* 

ANNEBULLEN.  249 

* 

I  know,  your  back  will  bear  a  duchess  ; — Say, 
Are  you  not  stronger  than  you  were  ? 

Anne.  Good  lady, 

Make  yourself  mirth  with  your  particular  fancy, 
And  leave  me  out  on 't.     'Would  I  had  no  being, 
If  this  salute  my  blood  a  jot ;  it  faints  me, 
To  think  what  follows. 
The  queen  is  comfortless,  and  we  forgetful, 
In  our  long  absence.    Pray,  do  not  deliver 
What  here  you  have  heard,  to  her. 

Old  L.  What  do  you  think  me  ? 

Anne  Bullen's  errors  spring  from  innate  weakness  of  character, 
deplorably  aggravated  by  a  pernicious  education.  Her  vanity  lays 
successful  snares  for  her  good  impulses — impulses  only,  they  never 
rise  to  the  dignity  of  principle.  She  can  pity  her  royal  rival  from 
her  very  soul ;  but  when  she  is  brought  face  to  face  with  the  daz- 
zling temptation,  she  is  not  sufficiently  heroic  to  refuse  for  her  fair 
brows  the  diadem  of  a  betrayed  wife,  or  the  wooing  of  a  guilty 
husband  for  her  dainty  hand.  It  may  indeed  "  faint  her  to  think 
what  follows " — as  well  it  might,  poor  lady  ! — but  the  power  to 
resist  is  not  in  her. 

To  the  scene  of  her  coronation,  at  Westminster  Abbey,  we 
must  look  for  the  most  striking  mention  of  her  personal  beauty : 

The  rich  stream 

Of  lords  and  ladies,  having  brought  the  queen 

To  a  prepar'd  place  in  the  choir,  fell  off 

A  distance  from  her,  while  her  grace  sat  down 

To  rest  a  while,  some  half  an  hour  or  so, 

In  a  rich  chair  of  state,  opposing  freely 

The  beauty  of  her  person  to  the  people ; 
******* 

*        *        *        *        which  when  the  people 
Had  the  full  view  of,  such  a  noise  arose 
As  the  shrouds  make  at  sea  in  a  stiff  tempest, 
32 


250  ANNE    BULL  EN. 

As  loud,  and  to  as  many  tunes  :  hats,  cloaks, 
(Doublets,  I  think,)  flew  up ;  and  had  their  faces 
Been  loose,  this  day  they  had  been  lost.    Such  joy 
I  never  saw  before.        ****** 
*        *        *        *         ****** 
At  length  her  grace  rose,  and  with  modest  paces 
Came  to  the  altar,  where  she  kneel'd,  and,  saint-like, 
Cast  her  fair  eyes  to  heaven,  and  prayed  devoutly. 
Then  rose  again,  and  bow'd  her  to  the  people ; 
When  by  the  archbishop  of  Canterbury 
She  had  all  the  royal  makings  of  a  queen : 
As  holy  oil,  Edward  Confessor's  crown, 
The  rod,  and  bird  of  peace — and  all  such  emblems 
Laid  nobly  on  her ;  which  perform'd,  the  choir, 
With  all  the  choicest  music  of  the  kingdom, 
Together  sung  Te  Deum.    So  she  parted, 
And  with  the  same  full  state  pac'd  back  again 
To  Tork-place,  where  the  feast  is  held, 


(V/) 


cT/ 


'■//y^-c^  0/  'oyfema?/? 


THE   PRINCESS    OF   FRANCE. 

This  royal  lady,  while  yet  a  maiden,  was  despatched  by  her 
bed-ridden  father,  the  King  of  France,  on  an  important  mission  to 
the  court  of  Ferdinand,  King  of  Navarre,  to  confer  with  that 
prince  concerning  the  surrender  of  Aquitaine — a  fair  domain  then 
in  his  possession,  but  to  which  France  laid  claim. 

As  the  august  party  approached  Navarre,  the  princess  learned 
that  his  majesty,  with  sundry  of  his  gentlemen,  had  recently  made 
a  solemn  vow  to  devote  the  coming  three  years  to  painful  study — 
to  mortify  the  flesh  by  fasting,  to  speak  to  no  woman,  and  to  for- 
bid the  approach  of  any  woman  within  a  mile  of  the  royal  palace. 

So  the  lady  halted,  even  where  she  was,  and  sent  a  messenger 
within  the  gates,  to  King  Ferdinand,  craving  an  interview  "  on  seri- 
ous business."  But  the  king,  already  informed  of  her  approach, 
had  taken  counsel  with  his  fellow-devotees,  and,  concluding  that 
this  must  constitute  an  exception  to  the  rigor  of  their  abstinence, 
was  already  on  the  road,  gallantly  attended,  to  bid  her  highness 
welcome  to  Navarre.  Much  to  his  mortification  he  was  compelled, 
for  his  oath's  sake,  to  deny  the  princess,  and  her  suite,  access  to  his 
court ;  but  he  caused  tents  to  be  erected  at  some  distance  from  the 


252  THE    PRINCESS    OF    FRANCE. 

palace,  and  entertained  them  with  great  splendor — he  and  his 
favorite  gentlemen  paying  their  respects  daily  to  the  fair  em- 
bassy. 

The  result  of  these  visits  to  the  lively  French  maids  was,  as 
might  be  anticipated,  fatal  to  the  peace  of  the  "matchless  Na- 
varre"  and  his  lords  ;  his  majesty  fell  in  love  with  the  princess  at 
sight,  and  his  followers  were  severally  fascinated  by  her  highness's 
ladies.  The  merry  demoiselles  amused  themselves  to  their  hearts' 
content  with  the  love-making  of  the  amateur  ascetics — passing  the 
days  in  sports,  invented  for  their  entertainment  by  their  lovers, 
and  all  the  graceful  coquetries  in  which  the  ladies  of  that  nation 
are  expert. 

But  in  the  midst  of  the  merry-making  came  a  messenger  from 
France,  with  the  sad  intelligence  of  the  king's  death ;  and  at  once 
preparations  were  made  for  the  princess's  return  home.  And  now 
Navarre  and  his  lords  urged  their  suits  more  seriously ;  but  the 
ladies  showed  themselves,  by  their  answers,  as  wise  as  they  were 
fair  and  witty :  the  princess  set  the  example  by  condemning  her 
royal  suitor  to  a  twelvemonth  of  severe  seclusion,  to  expiate  his 
broken  oaths ;  and  her  ladies  imitated  their  mistress  in  the  dis- 
position of  their  lovers,  imposing  upon  each  some  penance  adapted 
to  his  peculiar  case. 


This  "  French  king's  daughter  "  is  drawn  after  the  established 
model  for  princesses — "  a  maid  of  grace  and  complete  majesty," 
beautiful,  of  imposing  presence,  and  much  given  to  a  sententious 
sort  of  wit.  But  under  all  her  ostentation  and  moral  formalities, 
which  seem  assumed  as  necessary  addenda  to  her  rank,  she  is  a 
natural  woman  in  her  love  of  admiration,  coquetry,  and  frolic. 


THE    PRINCESS    OF    FRANCE.  253 

At  first,  somewhat  piqued  at  being  compelled  "  to  attend  like 
humbly-visag'd  suitors,"  on  the  king's  high  will — herself,  a  mon- 
arch's daughter,  "  lodged  in  a  field,  like  one  that  came  to  besiege 
his  court,"  rather  than  to  demand  a  right — the  princess  receives 
the  royal  courtesy  with  sharp  retorts : 

King.  Fair  princess,  welcome  to  the  court  of  Navarre. 

JPrin.  Fair  I  give  you  back  again;  and  welcome  I 
have  not  yet :  the  roof  of  this  court  is  too  high  to  be 
yours ;  and  welcome  to  the  wild  fields  too  base  to  be 
mine. 

King.  Tou  shall  be  welcome,  madam,  to  my  court. 

Prin.  I  will  be  welcome  then ;  conduct  me  thither. 

King.  Hear  me,  dear  lady ;  I  have  sworn  an  oath. 

Prin.  Our  lady  help  my  lord !  he'll  be  forsworn. 

King.  Not  for  the  world,  fair  madam,  by  my  will. 

Prin.  Why,  will  shall  break  it — will,  and  nothing  else. 

King.  Your  ladyship  is  ignorant  what  it  is. 

Prin.  Were  my  lord  so,  his  ignorance  were  wise, 
Where  now  his  knowledge  must  prove  ignorance. 
I  hear  your  grace  hath  sworn  out  house-keeping : 
»Tis  deadly  sin  to  keep  that  oath,  my  lord — 
And  sin  to  break  it. 

But  pardon  me — I  am  too  sudden  bold  ; 
To  tedch  a  teacher  ill  beseemeth  me. 
Vouchsafe  to  read  the  purpose  of  my  coming, 
And  suddenly  resolve  me  in  my  suit. 

But  all  more  dignified  emotions  soon  yield  to  her  mischiev- 
ous enjoyment  of  the  ludicrous  plight  of  these  gentlemen-hermits, 
who  fall  in  love  with  the  first  women  they  meet,  after  their  loud 
denunciations  of  the  sex.  Notwithstanding  their  hearty  response 
to  the  protestations  of  the  gallant  Navarrese,  the  princess  and  her 
ladies  spare  no  opportunity  to  heap  humiliations  upon  them :  mock- 
ing their  amorous  verses  as  "huge  translations  of  hypocrisy,  vilely 
compil'd  "  and  "  too  long  by  half  a  mile ; "  turning  their  elaborate 


254  THE    PRINCESS    OF    FRANCE. 

entertainments  to  ridicule;  and  yet,  withal,  making  themselves 
more  and  more  fascinating  to  the  infatuated  knights.  But  when 
the  announcement  of  the  death  of  the  King  of  France  puts  an  end 
to  their  mad  "  revels,  dances,  masks,  and  merry  hours,"  the  princess, 
recalled  to  her  stateliness,  apologizes  for  their  perhaps  indecorous 
folly,  with  a  dignity  truly  royal : 

I  thank  you,  gracious  lords, 
For  all  your  fair  endeavors,  and  entreat, 
Out  of  a  new-sad  soul,  that  you  vouchsafe, 
In  your  rich  wisdom,  to  excuse,  or  hide, 
The  liberal  opposition  of  our  spirits  ; 
If  over  boldly  we  have  borne  ourselves 
In  the  converse  of  breath,  your  gentleness 
Was  guilty  of  it. — Farewell,  worthy  lord ! 
A  heavy  heart  bears  not  an  humble  tongue  : 
Excuse  me  so,  coming  so  short  of  thanks 
For  my  great  suit  so  easily  obtain'd. 

And  her  reply  to  Navarre,  that  "  sole  inheritor  of  all  perfections 
that  a  man  may  owe,"  when  in  good  earnest  he  proffers  his  heart, 
is  marked  by  sound  sense,  and  jealous  regard  for  her  honor,  as  well 
as  by  the  chivalric  spirit  of  the  time,  when  a  lady's  love  was  not  to 
be  had  for  the  asking,  however  her  own  heart  might  "  own  the 
soft  impeachment : " 

We  have  receiv'd  your  letters,  full  of  love — 
Your  favors,  the  ambassadors  of  love ; 
And  in  our  maiden  council  rated  them 
At  courtship,  pleasant  jest,  and  courtesy, 
As  bombast,  and  as  lining  to  the  time : 
But  more  devout  than  this,  in  our  respects, 
Have  we  not  been ;  and  therefore  met  your  loves 
In  their  own  fashion,  like  a  merriment. 

Dum,  Our  letters,  madam,  show'd  much  more  than  jest. 

Long.  So  did  our  looks. 


THE    PRINCESS    OF    FRANCE.  25/j 

King.  Now,  at  the  latest  minute  of  the  hour, 
Grant  us  your  loves. 

Prin.  A  time,  methinks,  too  short 

To  make  a  world-with  out-end  bargain  in. 
No,  no,  my  lord;  your  grace  is  perjur'd  much — 
Full  of  dear  guiltiness ;  and  therefore  this — 
If  for  my  love  (as  there  is  no  such  cause) 
You  will  do  aught,  this  shall  you  do  for  me  : 
Your  oath  I  will  not  trust ;  but  go  with  speed 
To  some  forlorn  and  naked  hermitage, 
Remote  from  all  the  pleasures  of  the  world  ; 
There  stay,  until  the  twelve  celestial  signs 
Have  brought  about  their  annual  reckoning ; 
If  this  austere  insociable  life 
Change  not  your  offer  made  in  heat  of  blood — 
If  frosts,  and  fasts,  hard  lodging,  and  thin  weeds, 
Nip  not  the  gaudy  blossoms  of  your  love, 
But  that  it  bear  this  trial,  and  last  love — 
Then,  at  the  expiration  of  the  year, 
Come  challenge,  challenge  me  by  these  deserts, 
And,  by  this  virgin  palm,  now  kissing  thine, 
I  will  be  thine ;  and,  till  that  instant,  shut 
My  woeful  self  up  in  a  mousing  house, 
Raining  the  tears  of  lamentation 
For  the  remembrance  of  my  father's  death. 
If  this  thou  do  deny,  let  our  hands  part — 
Neither  intitled  in  the  other's  heart. 

The  opening  address  of  the  princess  is,  of  course,  only  a  coquet- 
tish ruse,  not  to  be  thought  "  too  quickly  won  " — no  one  is  better 
assured  than  she  of  the  sincerity  of  the  passion  conveyed  in  those 
fantastic  letters,  and  the  rich  gifts  which  bid  fair  to  "  wall  about 
with  diamonds"  the  "girls  of  France;"  and  none  more  happily 
confident  that  these  "moon-like  men"  will  steadfastly  devote  their 
twelvemonth  of  probation  to  the  consummation  of  their  loves. 


Z4&2&€Z£& 


KitfS-  J1FNRY  S.  PART  J.  ACT  5,  3C .  3 


MARGARET    OF    ANJOU. 

The  eventful  history  of  this  celebrated  princess,  who  "excelled 
all  other  in  beauty  and  favor,  as  in  wit  and  policy,"  constitutes  the 
leading  interest  of  the  tedious,  three-parted  tragedy  of  King 
Henry  VI,  wherein  she  appears,  first  as  the  daughter  of  Reignier, 
Duke  of  Anjou  and  Count  of  Provence,  and  afterwards  as  Queen 
Margaret  of  England,  wife  of  Henry  VI. 

The  action  of  this  play,  the  legitimacy  of  which  has  been  dis- 
puted and  maintained,  with  equal  astuteness,  by  Skakspearian  schol- 
ars, is  laid  amid  the  turbulent  scenes  of  the  York  and  Lancaster 
struggle.  Part  First  opens  with  the  death  of  Henry  V.,  whereupon 
his  youthful  son,  Henry,  ascends  the  throne  under  the  protec- 
torate of  his  uncle,  the  Duke  of  Gloster ;  it  treats  more  particu- 
larly of  the  war  with  France,  memorable  for  the  heroism  of  Joan 
of  Arc.  In  Part  Second,  the  young  king  is  married  to  the  Princess 
Margaret  of  Anjou,  who  prevails  upon  her  weak-minded  husband 
to  assume  the  reins  of  government — soon  after  which  the  kingdom 
is  embroiled  in  the  dvil  War  of  the  Koses ;  while  Part  Third  is  oc- 
cupied with  Henry's  deposition  from  the  throne,  and  Margaret's 
intriguing  efforts  to  reinstate  him — concluding  with  his  murder  by 
the  Duke  of  Gloster. 


33 


258  MARGARET    OF    ANJOU. 

Were  the  Margaret  of  Shakspeare — for  it  is  not  the  Margaret 
of  History  of  whom  we  have  to  speak — invested  with  any  personal 
claims  to  onr  pathetic  interest,  a  more  pitiful  picture  than  that 
afforded  by  the  simple  circumstances  of  her  story  could  scarcely 
be  offered  to  our  sympathetic  contemplation.  A  woman  of  ex- 
celling beauty  and  accomplishments,  of  indomitable  spirit  and 
unquailing  courage,  who,  having  been  elevated  to  the  exalted 
station  of  England's  queen,  lives  to  see  her  husband  treacher- 
ously deposed  from  his  throne,  and  finally  murdered — her  son 
having  suffered  the  same  fate  before  her  eyes ;  her  enemies  in 
the  full  enjoyment  of  their  guilty  triumph ;  herself  an  outcast,  so 
wretched  that  her  life  is  not  thought  worth  the  taking :  such  a 
woman  would  seem  to  constitute  an  object  of  commiseration  for 
the  sternest  beholder,  aside  from  all  individual  attributes  whatso- 
ever ;  but  Shakspeare  has  converted  pity  into  detestation,  by  de- 
picting Margaret  as  a  faithless  wife  to  a  husband,  noted  for  his 
gentle  virtues,  who  idolized  her — a  ferocious,  unrelenting  enemy,  a 
woman  of  petty  spites  and  coarse  cruelty. 

This  Margaret  has  all  the  ambition  of  Lady  Macbeth ;  but,  un- 
like hers,  it  is  essentially  vulgar  in  quality :  she  prefers  to  gain  her 
ends  by  trivial,  transparent  subtleties,  such  as  the  dashing  bold- 
ness of  the  thane's  wife  would  have  grandly  disdained.  She  has 
the  true  Frenchwoman's  love  of  political  intrigue,  without  her  pro- 
verbial tact ;  whatever  she  may  achieve  by  her  scheming,  she  as 
surely  spoils  by  her  maladroit  rashness.  The  only  situations  in  which 
we  are  permitted  to  regard  Margaret  with  even  tolerable  kindness 
are  these  two:  where  she  parts  with  her  lover,  Suffolk,  who  is  ban- 
ished by  Henry  after  the  murder  of  the  "  good  duke  Humphrey  : " 

Q.  Mar.  Enough,  sweet  Suffolk :  thou  torment'st  thyself; 
And  these  dread  curses — like  the  sun  'gainst  glass, 
Or  like  an  overcharged  gun — recoil, 


MARGARET    OF    ANJOU.  259 

And  turn  the  force  of  them  upon  thyself. 

Suf.  You  hade  me  han,  and  will  you  hid  me  leave  ? 
Now,  by  the  ground  that  I  am  hanish'd  from, 
Well  could  I  curse  away  a  winter's  night, 
Though  standing  naked  on  a  mountain  top, 
Where  biting  cold  would  never  let  grass  grow, 
And  think  it  but  a  minute  spent  in  sport ! 

Q.  Mar.  O,  let  me  entreat  thee,  cease !  Give  me  thy  hand, 
That  I  may  dew  it  with  my  mournful  tears  ; 
Nor  let  the  rain  of  heaven  wet  this  place, 
To  wash  away  my  woeful  monuments. 
O  could  this  kiss  be  printed  in  thy  hand — 
That  thou  might'st  think  upon  these  by  the  seal, 
Through  whom  a  thousand  sighs  are  breathed  for  thee ! 


I  Avill  repeal  thee — or,  be  well  assured, 

Adventure  to  be  banished  myself; 

And  banished  I  am,  if  but  from  thee. 

Go  !  speak  not  to  me  ;  even  now  begone. — 

O,  go  not  yet ! — Even  thus  two  friends  condenm'd 

Embrace,  and  kiss,  and  take  ten  thousand'  leaves, 

Loather  a  hundred  times  to  part  than  die. 

Yet  now  farewell ;  and  farewell  life  with  thee  ! 

Suf.  Thus  is  poor  Suffolk  ten  times  banished : 
Once  by  the  king,  and  three  times  thrice  by  thee. 
'Tis  not  the  land  I  care  for,  wert  thou  hence — 
A  wilderness  is  populous  enough, 
So  Suffolk  had  thy  heavenly  company ; 
For  where  thou  art,  there  is  the  world  itself, 
With  every  several  pleasure  in  the  world  ; 
And  where  thou  art  not,  desolation. 
I  can  no  more  : — Live  thou  to  joy  thy  life — 
Myself  no  joy  in  nought,  but  that  thou  liv'st. 

*  ****** 

Q.  Mar.  Away  !    Though  parting  be  a  fretful  corrosive, 
It  is  applied  to  a  deathful  wound. 
To  France,  sweet  Suffolk :  Let  me  hear  from  thee ; 
For  wheresoe'er  thou  art  in  this  world's  globe, 
I'll  have  an  Iris  that  shall  find  thee  out. 


260  MARGARET    OF    ANJOU. 

— and  where  she  upbraids  her  husband  for  having  ignobly  ceded 
his  son's  right  of  succession  for  the  assurance  of  a  peaceful  reign 
to  himself: 

Ah,  wretched  man !  'would  I  had  died  a  maid, 
And  never  seen  thee,  never  borne  thee  son, 
Seeing  thou  hast  proved  so  unnatural  a  father ! 
Hath  he  deserved  to  lose  his  birthright  thus  ? 
Had'st  thou  but  loved  him  half  so  well  as  I — 
Or  felt  that  pain  which  I  did  for  him  once — 
Or  nourish'd  him,  as  I  did  with  my  blood— 
Thou  wouldst  have  left  thy  dearest  heart-blood  there, 
Rather  than  made  that  savage  duke  thine  heirj 
And  disinherited  thine  only  son. 

JT.  Hen.  Pardon  me,  Margaret ; — pardon  me,  sweet  sOn  ;— 
The  earl  of  Warwick,  and  the  duke,  enforced  me, 

Q.  Mar.  Enforced  thee !  Art  thou  king,  and  wilt  be  forc'd  ? 
I  shame  to  hear  thee  speak.     Ah,  timorous  wretch ! 
Thou  hast  undone  thyself,  thy  son,  and  me ; 
And  given  unto  the  house  of  York  such  head 
As  thou  shalt  reign  but  by  their  sufferance. 
To  entail  him  and  his  heirs  unto  the  crown$ 
"What  is  it  but  to  make  thy  sepulchre, 
And  creep  into  it  far  before  thy  time  ? 

Had  I  been  there,  which  am  a  silly  woman, 
The  soldiers  should  have  toss'd  me  on  their  pikes, 
Before  I  would  have  granted  to  that  act. 
But  thou  preferr'st  thy  life  before  thine  honor ; 
And,  seeing  thou  dost,  I  here  divorce  myself, 
Both  from  thy  table,  Henry,  and  thy  bed, 
Until  that  act  of  parliament  be  repealed, 
Whereby  my  son  is  disinherited. 

Here  her  indignation  is  most  just,  its  lofty  spirit  equally  be- 
coming to  the  mother  and  the  queen. 

Henry  lives  to  see  her  words  made  good :  the  Duke  of  York  is 
to  all  intents  and  purposes  king,  under  the  title  of  lord-protector ; 


'^^■TZsC^/^yltT^/^'' 


MARGARET    OF    AN  JO  U.  261 

while  his  final  overthrow  by  Margaret,  whose  vigilance  and  energy 
in  her  husband's  forlorn  cause  are  untiling,  displays  with  fine  dra- 
matic effect  all  the  inhuman  attributes  of  her  character.  The 
gibing  malignity  of  her  address  to  him,  after  he  has  been  taken 
prisoner,  is  worthy  of  this  "  she- wolf  of  France,"  and  inseparable 
from  her  characteristic  spitefulness : 

********* 

•       *       *       *       *  *  * 

What !  was  it  you  that  would  be  England's  king  ? 

Was 't  you  that  revel'd  in  our  parliament, 

And  made  a  preachment  of  your  high  descent  ? 

Where  are  your  mess  of  sons  to  back  you  now — 

The  wanton  Edward,  and  the  lusty  George  ? 

And  whereas  that  valiant  crook-back  prodigy, 

Dicky  your  boy,  that  with  his  grumbling  voice, 

Was  wont  to  cheer  his  dad  in  mutinies  ? 

Or,  with  the  rest,  where  is  your  darling  Rutland  t 

Look,  York !   I  stain'd  this  napkin  with  the  blood 

That  valiant  Clifford,  with  his  rapier's  point, 

Made  issue  from  the  bosom  of  the  boy ; 

And,  if  thine  eyes  can  water  for  his  death, 

I  give  thee  this  to  dry  thy  cheeks  withal. 

Alas,  poor  York !  but  that  I  hate  thee  deadly^ 

I  should  lament  thy  miserable  state. 

I  pr'ythee  grieve,  to  make  me  merry,  York  ; 

Stamp,  rave,  and  fret,  that  I  may  sing  and  dance. 

What !  hath  thy  fiery' heart  so  parch'd  thine  entrails, 

That  not  a  tear  can  fall  for  Rutland's  death  ? 

Why  art  thou  patient,  man  ?  thou  should'st  be  mad  ; 

And  I,  to  make  thee  mad,  do  mock  thee  thus. 

Thou  would'st  be  fee'd,  I  see,  to  make  me  sport ; 

York  cannot  speak,  unless  he  wear  a  crown. — 

A  crown  for  York ; — and,  lords,  bow  low  to  him. — 

Hold  you  his  hands,  whilst  I  do  set  it  on. — 

[Putting  a  paper  crown  on  his  head. 
Ay,  marry,  sir,  now  looks  he  like  a  king  ! 
Ay,  this  is  he  that  took  King  Henry's  chair  ; 
And  this  is  he  was  his  adopted  heir. — 


262  MARGARET    OF    AN  JO  U. 

But  how  is  it  that  great  Plantagenet 

Is  crown'd  so  soon,  and  broke  his  solemn  oath  ? 

As  I  bethink  me,  you  should  not  be  king, 

Till  our  King  Henry  had  shook  hands  with  death. 

After  that  murder  of  an  innocent  child,  to  avenge  herself  on 
the  father,  we  can  scarcely  sympathize  with  her  clamorous  grief 
when  her  own  son  is  pitilessly  hacked  to  death  at  her  feet ;  her 
denunciation  of  his  "  butchers "  is  no  better  than  mockery,  from 
the  lips  of  a  woman  guilty  of  the  same  crime,  committed  in  the 
wantonest  spirit  of  malignity : 

Q.  Mar.  O  Ned,  sweet  Ned !  speak  to  thy  mother,  boy  ! 
Canst  thou  not  speak  ?     O  traitors !  murderers ! — 
They  that  stabb'd  Caesar  shed  no  blood  at  all, 
Did  not  offend,  nor  were  not  worthy  blame, 
If  this  foul  deed  were  by,  to  equal  it : 
He  was  a  man — this,  in  respect,  a  child  ; 
And  men  ne'er  spend  their  fury  on  a  child. 
What's  worse  than  murderer,  that  I  may  name  it  ? 
No,  no  ;  my  heart  will  burst,  an  if  I  speak  ; — 
And  I  will  speak,  that  so  my  heart  may  burst : — 
Butchers  and  villains,  bloody  cannibals ! 
How  sweet  a  plant  have  you  untimely  cropp'd ! 
You  have  no  children,  butchers !  if  you  had, 
The  thought  of  them  would  have  stir'd  up  remorse  ; 
But  if  you  ever  chance  to  have  a  child, 
Look  in  his  youth  to  have  him  so  cut  off, 
As,  deathsmen,  you  have  rid  this  sweet  young  prince  ! 

We  have  the  apparition  of  Queen  Margaret  in  the  play  of 
King  Richard  III.  also,  where  she  presents  the  melancholy  spec- 
tacle of  defeated  hopes,  and  a  desolate  old  age  spent  in  bitter  im- 
precations, which  seem  to  recoil  with  tenfold  power  upon  her  own 
tiead.  Here  she  "  stalks  around  the  seat  of  her  former  greatness, 
like  a  terrible  phantom  of  departed  majesty,"  or  like  a  "grim 
prophetess  of  evil,"  "  filling  the  world  with  words "  whose  inten- 


MARGARET    OF    ANJOU.  263 

sity  of  cursing  seems,  as  she  says,  to  "ease  the  heart."  And  it 
would  appear  that  her  curses  were  true  inspirations,  not  simply 
vindictive  volubility,  for  she  survives  to  see  them  fulfilled  with 
appalling  exactness : 

Q.  Eliz.  O,  thou  didst  prophesy  the  time  would  come 
That  I  should  wish  for  thee  to  help  me  curse 
That  bottled  spider,  that  foul  bunch-back'd  toad. 

Q.  Mar.  I  call'd  thee,  then,  vain  flourish  of  my  fortune ; 
I  call'd  thee,then,poor  shadow,  painted  queen — 
The  presentation  of  but  what  I  was, 
The  flattering  index  of  a  direful  pageant — 
One  heaved  a-high,  to  be  hurl'd  down  below  : 
A  mother  only  mock'd  with  two  fair  babes  ; 
A  dream  of  what  thou  wast ;  a  garish  flag, 
To  be  the  aim  of  every  dangerous  shot ; 
A  sign  of  dignity,  a  breath,  a  bubble ; 
A  queen  in  jest,  only  to  fill  the  scene. 
Where  is  thy  husband  now  ?  where  be  thy  brothers  ? 
Where  be  thy  two  sons  ?  wherein  dost  thou  joy  ? 
Who  sues,  and  kneels,  and  says, — God  save  the  queen  ? 
Where  be  the  bending  peers  that  flatter'd  thee  ? 
Where  be  the  thronging  troops  that  follow'd  thee  ? 
Decline  all  this,  and  see  what  now  thou  art : 
For  happy  wife,  a  most  distressed  widow ; 
For  joyful  mother,  one  that  wails  the  name ; 
For  one  being  sued  to,  one  that  humbly  sues ; 
For  queen,  a  very  caitiff  crown'd  with  care. 

The  scene  where,  after  the  murder  of  the  young  princes  in  the 
Tower,  the  three  women — Margaret,  Queen  Elizabeth,  and  the  old 
Duchess  of  York — sworn  foes  till  then,  meet  at  the  foot  of  the 
scaffold  of  their  appalling  wrongs  and  sorrows,  is  wrought  with 
terrible  effect : 

Q.  Mar.  If  ancient  sorrow  be  most  reverent, 
Give  mine  the  benefit  of  seniory, 
And  let  my  griefs  frown  on  the  upper  hand. 


2G4  MARGARET    OF    ANJOTJ. 

If  sorrow  can  admit  society,       \Sitting  down  with  them. 
Tell  o'er  your  woes  again  by  viewing  mine  : 
I  had  an  Edward,  till  a  Richard  kill'd  him ; 
I  had  a  husband,  till  a  Richard  kill'd  him  : 
Thou  hadst  an  Edward,  till  a  Richard  kill'd  him ; 
Thou  hadst  a  Richard,  till  a  Richard  kill'd  him. 

Duch.  I  had  a  Richard  too,  and  thou  didst  kill  him ; 
I  had  a  Rutland  too — thou  holp'st  to  kill  him. 

Q.  Mar.  Thou  hadst  a  Clarence  too,  and  Richard  kill'd  him. 
From  forth  the  kennel  of  thy  womb  hath  crept 
A  hell-hound,  that  doth  hunt  us  all  to  death — 
That  dog,  that  had  his  teeth  before  his  eyes, 
To  worry  lambs,  and  lap  their  gentle  blood — 
That  foul  defacer  of  God's  handy-work — 
That  excellent  grand  tyrant  of  the  earth, 
That  reigns  in  galled  eyes  of  weeping  souls! 

Duch.  O,  Harry's  wife,  triumph  not  in  my  woes  ; 
God  witness  with  me,  I  have  wept  for  thine. 

Q.  Mar.  Bear  with  me  ;  I  am  hungry  for  revenge, 
And  now  I  cloy  me  with  beholding  it. 
Thy  Edward  he  is  dead,  that  kill'd  my  Edward  ; 
Thy  other  Edward  dead,  to  quit  my  Edward  ; 
Young  York  he  is  but  boot,  because  both  they 
Match  not  the  high  perfection  of  my  loss. 
Thy  Clarence  he  is  dead,  that  stabb'd  my  Edward  , 
And  the  beholders  of  this  tragic  play, 
The  adulterate  Hastings,  Rivers,  Vaughan,  Grey, 
Untimely  smother'd  in  their  dusky  graves. 
Richard  yet  lives,  hell's  black  intelligencer — 
Only  reserv'd  their  factor,  to  buy  souls, 
And  send  them  thither.    But  at  hand,  at  hand, 
Ensues  his  piteous  and  unpitied  end : 
Earth  gapes,  hell  burns,  fiends  roar,  saints  pray, 
To  have  him  suddenly  convey'd  from  hence  ; — 
Cancel  his  bond  of  life,  dear  God,  I  pray, 
That  I  may  live  to  say  the  dog  is  dead  ! 


i^y^-^Z^y 


JOAN    OF   ARC. 

It  is  a  cruel  trial  for  one's  cherished  romance  to  be  compelled 
to  turn  from  the  spotless  enthusiast,  the  gentle  martyr  of  history, 
who  has  made  this  name  famous,  to  the  poor  counterfeit  and  im- 
postor who  appears  as  the  heroine  of  the  first  part  of  King 
Henry  VI.  The  "  La  Pucelle  "  of  Shakspeare  is  painted  with  the 
bitterest  English  prejudice,  as  half  witch,  half  charlatan — a  coarse, 
fighting,  blood-thirsty  Amazon,  who,  when  made  prisoner,  con- 
descends to  an  ignominious  subterfuge  to  escape  the  death-sen- 
tence. 

She  is  introduced  to  the  prince-dauphin,  during  the  desperate 
straits  of  the  siege  of  Orleans,  by  the  Bastard  of  Orleans,  who 
addresses  his  royal  master  in  these  words  : 

Methinks  your  looks  are  sad,  your  cheer  appall'd ; 
Hath  the  late  overthrow  wrought  this  offence  ? 
Be  not  dismay'd,  for  succor  is  at  hand  : 
A  holy  maid  hither  with  me  I  bring, 
Which,  hy  a  vision  sent  to  her  from  heaven, 
Ordained  is  to  raise  this  tedious  siege, 
And  drive  the  English  forth  the  bounds  of  France. 
The  spirit  of  deep  prophecy  she  hath, 
Exceeding  the  nine  sibyls  of  old  Rome  ; 
"What's  past,  and  what's  to  come,  she  can  descry. 
34 


266  JOAN    OF    ARC. 

And  to  Charles,  himself,  she  thus  relates  her  story,  and  declares 
the  mission  she  is  charged  with  :    . 

Dauphin,  I  am  by  birth  a  shepherd's  daughter — 
My  wit  untraiu'd  in  any  kind  of  art. 
Heaven,  and  our  Lady  gracious,  hath  it  pleas'd 
To  shine  on  my  contemptible  estate : 
Lo,  whilst  I  waited  on  my  tender  lambs, 
And  to  sun's  parching  heat  display'd  my  cheeks, 
God's  mother  deigned  to  appear  to  me, 
And,  in  a  vision  full  of  majesty, 
Will'd  me  to  leave  my  base  vocation, 
And  free  my  country  from  calamity ; 
Her  aid  she  promis'd,  and  assur'd  success  ; 
In  complete  glory  she  reveal'd  herself; 
And,  whereas  I  was  black  and  swart  before, 
With  those  clear  rays  which  she  infus'd  on  me 
That  beauty  am  I  bless'd  with  which  you  see. 
Ask  me  what  question  thou  canst  possible, 
And  I  will  answer  unpremeditated ; 
My  courage  try  by  combat,  if  thou  dar'st, 
And  thou  shalt  find  that  I  exceed  my  sex. 
Resolve  on  this  :  Thou  shalt  be  fortunate, 
If  thou  receive  me  for  thy  warlike  mate. 

La  Pucelle  is  as  good  as  her  word ;  she  forces  an  entrance  to 
the  town  of  Orleans,  in  the  very  teeth  of  the  redoubtable  John 
Talbot,  "  the  scourge  of  France ; "  and  at  once  the  shepherd's 
daughter  is  deified  by  her  grateful  sovereign  and  her  enthusiastic 
countrymen : 

JPuc.  Advance  our  waving  colors  on  the  walls  ; 
Rescu'd  is  Orleans  from  the  English  wolves : — 
Thus  Joan  la  Pucelle  hath  perform'd  her  word. 

Char.  Divinest  creature,  bright  Astraea's  daughter, 
How  shall  I  honor  thee  for  this  success  ? 
Thy  promises  are  like  Adonis'  gardens, 
That  one  day  bloom'd,  and  fruitful  were  the  next. — 


JOAN    OF    ARC  2G7 

France,  triumph  in  thy  glorious  prophetess  ! — 

Recover'd  is  the  town  of  Orleans ; 

More  blessed  hap  did  ne'er  befall  our  state. 

JReig.  Why  ring  not  out  the  bells  throughout  the  town  ? 
Dauphin,  command  the  citizens  make  bonfires, 
And  feast  and  banquet  in  the  open  streets, 
To  celebrate  the  joy  that  God  hath  given  us. 

Char.  'Tis  Joan,  not  we,  by  whom  the  day  is  won  ; 
For  which  I  will  divide  my  crown  with  her, 
And  all  the  priests  and  friars  in  my  realm 
Shall,  in  procession,  sing  her  endless  praise. 
A  statelier  pyramis  to  her  I'll  rear 
Than  Rhodope's,  or  Memphis',  ever  was  ; 
In  memory  of  her,  when  she  is  dead, 
Her  ashes,  in  an  urn  more  precious 
Than  the  rich  jewell'd  coffer  of  Darius, 
Transported  shall  be  at  high  festivals 
Before  the  kings  and  queens  of  France. 
No  longer  on  Saint  Denis  will  we  cry, 
But  Joan  la  Pucelle  shall  be  France's  saint. 

One  passage  from  the  lips  of  our  Joan  of  Arc  is  worthy  of  hei 
great  namesake — her  exhortation  to  the  Duke  of  Burgundy,  who 
has  joined  the  English  forces  against  France : 

Look  on  thy  country,  look  on  fertile  France, 
And  see  the  cities  and  the  towns  defac'd 
By  wasting  ruin  of  the  cruel  foe ! 
As  looks  the  mother  on  her  lowly  babe, 
When  death  doth  close  his  tender  dying  eyes, 
See,  see,  the  pining  malady  of  France  ; 
Behold  the  wounds,  the  most  unnatural  wounds, 
Which  thou  thyself  hast  given  her  woful  breast ! 
O,  turn  thy  edged  sword  another  way — 
Strike  those  that  hurt,  and  hurt  not  those  that  help ! 
One  drop  of  blood,  drawn  from  thy  country's  bosom, 
Should  grieve  thee  more  than  streams  of  foreign  gore ; 
Return  thee,  therefore,  with  a  flood  of  tears, 
And  wash  away  thy  country's  stained  spots ! 


268  JOAN    OF    ARC. 

Bur.  Either  she  hath  bewitch'd  me  with  her  words, 
Or  nature  makes  me  suddenly  relent. 

In  the  Fifth  Act  we  are  treated  to  an  episode  of  genuine  witch- 
craft, over  which  the  "holy  maid"  presides;  by  the  desertion  of 
her  "familiars"  we  are  prepared  for  her  speedy  downfall : 

JPue.  Now  help,  ye  charming  spells,  and  periapts  ; 
And  ye  choice  spirits  that  admonish  me, 
And  give  me  signs  of  future  accidents  !  [Thunder. 

You  speedy  helpers,  that  are  substitutes 
Under  the  lordly  monarch  of  the  north, 
Appear,  and  aid  me  in  this  enterprise  ! 

Enter  Fiends. 

This  speedy  quick  appearance  argues  proof 

Of  your  accustom'd*diligence  to  me. 

Now,  ye  familiar  spirits,  that  are  cull'd 

Out  of  the  powerful  regions  under  earth, 

Help  me  this  once,  that  France  may  get  the  field. 

[They  wallc  about,  and  speak  not. 
O,  hold  me  not  with  silence  over-long ! 
Where  I  was  wont  to  feed  you  with  my  blood, 
I'll  lop  a  member  off,  and  give  it  you, 
In  earnest  of  a  further  benefit ; 
So  you  do  condescend  to  help  me  now. — 

[They  Jiang  their  heads. 
No  hope  to  have  redress  ? — My  body  shall 
Pay  recompense,  if  you  will  grant  my  suit. 

[They  shake  their  heads. 
Cannot  my  body,  nor  blood-sacrifice, 
Entreat  you  to  your  wonted  furtherance  ? 
Then  take  my  soul — my  body,  soul,  and  all — 
Before  that  England  give  the  French  the  foil. 

[They  depart. 
See !  they  forsake  me.     Now  the  time  is  come, 
That  France  must  vail  her  lofty-plumed  crest, 
And  let  her  head  fall  into  England's  lap. 
My  ancient  incantations  are  too  weak. 


JOAN    OF    ARC.  2G0 

In  the  next  martial  encounter,  therefore,  we  are  not  surprised 
to  find  her  captured  by  the  Duke  of  York,  and  at  once  condemned 
to  die : 

York.  Take  her  away ;  for  she  hath  liv'd  too  long, 
To  fill  the  world  with  vicious  qualities. 

Puc.  First,  let  me  tell  you  whom  you  have  condemn'd : 
Not  me  begotten  of  a  shepherd  swain. 
But  issued  from  the  progeny  of  kings  ; 
Virtuous,  and  holy ;  chosen  from  above, 
By  inspiration  of  celestial  grace, 
To  work  exceeding  miracles  on  earth. 
I  never  had  to  do  with  wicked  spirits ; 
But  you, — that  are  polluted  with  your  lusts, 
Stain'd  with  the  guiltless  blood  of  innocents, 
Corrupt  and  tainted  with  a  thousand  vices, — 
Because  you  want  the  grace  that  others  have, 
You  judge  it  straight  a  thing  impossible 
To  compass  wonders,  but  by  help  of  devils. 
No,  misconceiv'd  !  Joan  of  Arc  hath  been 
A  virgin  from  her  tender  infancy, 
Chaste  and  immaculate  in  very  thought — 
Whose  maiden  blood,  thus  rigorously  effus'd, 
Will  cry  for  vengeance  at  the  gates  of  heaven. 

York.  Ay,  ay ; away  with  her  to  execution. 

War.  And  hark  ye,  sirs ;  because  she  is  a  maid, 
Spare  for  no  fagots — let  there  be  enough ; 
Place  barrels  of  pitch  upon  the  fatal  stake, 
That  so  her  torture  may  be  shortened. 

Puc.  Will  nothing  turn  your  unrelenting  hearts  ? — 
Then,  Joan,  discover  thine  infirmity, 
That  wTarranteth  by  law  to  be  thy  privilege  : — 
I  am  with  child,  ye  bloody  homicides : 
Murder  not  then  the  fruit  within  my  womb, 
Although  ye  hale  me  to  a  violent  death. 


K.a:r,    UENKT  R™  ACT  3.  SC.  2. 


' 


LADY    GREY. 

Lady  Elizabeth  Grey,  widow  of  Sir  John  Grey,  and  wife  of 
Edward  IV.  of  England,  shares  with  Queen  Margaret  the  sorrows 
of  one  tragedy,  and,  by  her  sufferings  at  the  hands  of  the  mon- 
ster Duke  of  Gloster,  constitutes  a  feature  of  melancholy  interest 
in  another. 

She  first  appears  as  the  widow  Grey,  pleading  to  King  Edward 
for  the  restitution  of  certain  lands  which  "  were  seized  on  by  the 
conqueror,"  when  her  husband  was  slain  at  the  battle  of  Saint 
Albans.  In  this  interview  the  lady  conducts  herself  with  so  much 
grace  and  discretion,  that,  notwithstanding  the  Earl  of  Warwick 
is  negotiating  for  his  sovereign  at  the  French  court,  for  the  hand  of 
the  Lady  Bona,  sister  of  Louis  XL,  Edward  falls  in  love  with  her, 
and  makes  the  granting  of  her  suit  dependent  on  her  acceptance 
of  himself  for  a  husband : 

K.  JSdw.  Widow,  we  will  consider  of  your  suit ; 
And  come  some  other  time  to  know  our  mind. 

L.  Grey.  Right  gracious  lord,  I  cannot  brook  delay ; 
May  it  please  your  highness  to  resolve  me  now ; 
And  what  your  pleasure  is  shall  satisfy  me. 
*        ******* 

K.  Edw.  An  easy  task  ;  'tis  but  to  love  a  king. 


272  LADY    GREY. 

L.  Grey.  That's  soon  perform'd,  because  I  am  a  subject. 

K.  Edw.  Ay,  but  I  fear  me,  in  another  sense. 
What  love,  think'st  thou,  I  sue  so  much  to  get  ? 

L.  Grey.  My  love  till  death,  my  humble  thanks,  my  prayers : 
That  love  which  virtue  begs  and  virtue  grants. 

K.  Edw.  No,  by  my  troth,  I  did  not  mean  such  love. 
********* 

L.  Grey.  My  mind  will  never  grant  what  I  perceive 
Your  highness  aims  at,  if  I  aim  aright. 
********** 

K.  Edw.  Why,  then  thou  shalt  not  have  thy  husband's  lands. 

L.  Grey.  Why,  then  mine  honesty  shall  be  my  dower ; 
For  by  that  loss  I  will  not  purchase  them. 

K.  Edw.  Therein  thou  wrong'st  thy  children  mightily. 

L.  Grey.  Herein  your  highness  wrongs  both  them  and  me. 
But,  mighty  lord,  this  merry  inclination 
Accords  not  with  the  sadness  of  my  suit ; 
Please  you  dismiss  me  either  with  ay  or  no. 

K.  Edw.  Ay ;  if  thou  wilt  say  ay  to  my  request : 
No  ;  if  thou  dost  say  no  to  my  demand. 

L.  Grey.  Then  no,  my  lord.    My  suit  is  at  an  end. 

K.  Edw.  [Aside.]  Her  looks  do  argue  her  replete  with 
modesty ; 
Her  words  do  show  her  wit  incomparable. 
All  her  perfections  challenge  sovereignty : 
One  way  or  other  she  is  for  a  king ; 
And  she  shall  be  my  love,  or  else  my  queen. — 
Say  that  King  Edward  take  thee  for  his  queen  ? 

L.  Grey.  'Tis  better  said  than  done,  my  gracious  lord : 
I  am  a  subject  fit  to  jest  withal, 
But  far  unfit  to  be  a  sovereign. 

K.  Edw.  Sweet  widow,  by  my  state  I  swear  to  thee, 
I  speak  no  more  than  what  my  soul  intends ; 
******** 
Answer  no  more,  for  thou  shalt  be  my  queen. 

And  so  the  poor  lady — a  retiring,  tender-hearted  gentlewoman, 
fitted  only  for  the  secluded  yet  not  undignified  estate  to  which  for- 
tune had  called  her — "becomes  Edward's  crowned  queen,  a  very 


LADY    GREY.  273 

lamb  tossed  to  the  ravening  wolves  of  that  reign  of  terror.  Where 
Margaret,  of  iron  nerves,  dauntless  will,  and  almost  equal  ferocity, 
has  been  trodden  under  foot,  what  better  fate  can  be  hoped  for 
this  gentle  mother  and  modest  housewife,  who  has  ignorantly  dared 
to  assume  a  position  so  perilous  ? 

"Small  joy,"  indeed,  has  she  "in  being  England's  queen w— 
"  baited,  scorn'd,  and  storm'd  at,"  by  her  fierce  brothers-in4aw  dur- 
ing her  husband's  life,  and  after  his  death  their  unspared  victim. 
Not  only  does  Richard  usurp  the  throne,  of  which  lie  is  lord-pro- 
tector during  the  minority  of  his  nephew,  but  the  royal  youngling 
and  his  brother  are,  by  his  order,  murdered  in  the  Tower. 

The  wretched  mother's  farewell  exhortation  to  the  prison 
which  contains  her  infant  sons,  from  whom  she  is  debarred,  has 
been  justly  pronounced  one  of  the  most  beautiful  passages  in  the 
play: 

Q.  Hkiz.  Stay  yet ;  look  back,  with  me,  unto  the  Tower. — 
Pity,  you  ancient  stones,  those  tender  babes, 
Whom  envy  hath  immured  within  your  walls ! 
Rough  cradle  for  such  little  pretty  ones  ! 
Rude  ragged  nurse !  old  sullen  play-fellow 
For  tender  princes,  use  my  babies  well ! 
So  foolish  sorrow  bids  your  stones  farewell* 

Were  the  wooer  any  other  than  the  arch-fiend  Richard  himself, 
we  should  protest  against  the  possibility  that  even  so  weak  a  wo- 
man, as  this  queen  in  spite  of  herself,  could  consent  to  wed  her 
daughter  to  the  crook-backed  villain ;  but  there  is  no  resisting  his 
wily  tongue — she  falls  into  the  snare  with  dreadful  compliance ; 
Heaven  alone  saved  the  helpless  young  girl  from  so  fatal  a  con- 
summation : 

K.  Rich.  Be  not  so  hasty  to  confound  my  meaning  ; 
I  mean  that  with  my  soul  I  love  thy  daughter, 
35 


274 


LADY    GREY. 

An 

d  do  intend  to  make  her  queen  of  England. 

* 

*        *        *        *        *        *        *        * 

* 

1        1,1        $        i'        I        t        I 

The  king  that  calls  your  beauteous  daughter  wife, 

Familiarly  shall  call  thy  Dorset  brother ; 

Again  shall  you  be  mother  to  a  king, 

And  all  the  ruins  of  distressful  times 

Repair'd  with  double  riches  of  content. 

What !  we  have  many  goodly  days  to  see ; 

The  liquid  drops  of  tears  that  you  have  shed 

Shall  come  again,  transformed  to  orient  pearl, 

Advantaging  their  loan  with  interest 

Of  ten  times  double  gain  of  happiness. 

Go,  then,  my  mother — to  thy  daughter  go  ; 

Make  bold  her  bashful  years  with  your  experience  ; 

Prepare  her  ears  to  hear  a  wooer's  tale  ; 

Put  in  her  tender  heart  the  aspiring  flame 

Of  golden  sovereignty.  ***** 

Q.  Eliz.  What  were  I  best  to  say  ?  her  father's  brother 
Would  be  her  lord  ?  Or  shall  I  say  her  uncle  ? 
Or  he  that  slew  her  brothers,  and  her  uncles  ? 
Under  what  title  shall  I  woo  for  thee, 
That  God,  the  law,  my  honor,  and  her  love 
Can  make  seem  pleasing  to  her  tender  years  ? 
******** 

K.  Rich.  As  I  intend  to  prosper,  and  repent ! 
So  thrive  I  in  my  dangerous  attempt 
Of  hostile  arms !  myself  myself  confound ! 
Heaven,  and  fortune,  bar  me  happy  hours ! 
Day,  yield  me  not  thy  light ;  nor,  night,  thy  rest ! 
Be  opposite  all  planets  of  good  luck 
To  my  proceeding !  if,  with  pure  heart's  love, 
Immaculate  devotion,  holy  thoughts, 
I  tender  not  thy  beauteous  princely  daughter ! 
********* 
Therefore,  dear  mother,  (I  must  call  you  so,) 
Be  the  attorney  of  my  love  to  her. 
Plead  what  I  will  be,  not  what  I  have  been ; 
Not  my  deserts,  but  what  I  will  deserve ; 


L.ADY    GREY.  275 

Urge  the  necessity  and  state  of  times, 
And  be  not  peevish  found  in  great  designs. 
Q.  JBJliz.  Shall  I  be  tempted  of  the  devil  thus  ? 

Shall  I  go  win  my  daughter  to  thy  will  ? 

K.  Mich.  And  be  a  happy  mother  by  the  deed. 

Q.  Eliz.  I  go. — Write  to  me  very  shortly, 
And  you  shall  understand  from  me  her  mind. 

K.  Rich.  Bear  her  my  true  love's  kiss,  and  so  farewell. 
[Kissing  her.    Exit  Q.  Elizabeth. 
Relenting  fool,  and  shallow,  changing — woman  ! 


■x^r 


-^U2>7/y  cJ^Oh^U 


44    \    - 


LADY    ANNE. 

Tins  lady,  the  eldest  daughter  of  that  renowned  "  setter  up  and 
plucker  down  of  kings,"  the  Earl  of  Warwick,  was  twice  married — 
first  to  Edward,  Prince  of  Wales,  son  of  Henry  VI.,  by  Margaret 
of  Anjou ;  and  afterward  to  Eichard,  Duke  of  Gloster. 

The  scene  in  King  Hichard  III.,  where,  even  in  the  act  of  fol- 
lowing the  corse  of  her  father-in-law  to  the  grave,  she  is  wooed  and 
won  by  his  murderer,  who  had  also  "  cropp'd  the  golden  prime  of 
the  sweet  prince,"  her  husband,  leaves  nothing  to  be  desired  as  an 
exemplification  of  her  character.  That  demonstrates  her  a  woman, 
doubtless  of  good  intentions  and  a  sufficiently  kind  heart,  but 
lamentably  deficient  in  intellect  and  the  plainest  common  sense — 
without  any  fixed  principles  or  opinions,  or  the  simply  natural  im- 
pulses of  a  saving  pride.  We  grant  the  irresistible  fascination,  that 
would  exist  for  such  a  woman  as  Anne,  in  the  towering  superiority, 
the  flashing  audacity  of  Richard — and  he  purposely  makes  a  dis- 
play of  it  by  threatening  the  gentlemen  who  bear  the  body ;  but 
nothing  is  truer  of  her  than  that  "  in  a  less  critical  moment  a  far 
less  subtle  and  audacious  seducer  would  have  sufficed." 

She  is  an  eminent  example  of  weakness,  the  effects  of  which  are 
scarcely  less  deplorable  than  those  of  deliberate  criminality;  nor  do 


278  LADY    ANNE. 

they  differ  from  those  materially.  In  her  community  of  good  and 
bad  fellow-creatures  she  exists  a  negative  abstraction,  equally  ready 
to  be  good  or  bad,  as  any  one,  for  selfish  purposes,  may  take  the 
pains  to  influence  her. 

With  Anne,  Richard  appeals  to  her  personal  vanity,  her  pro- 
pensity to  inspire  passion,  as,  subsequently  with  Elizabeth,  he 
tempts  maternal  ambition;  but  in  both  cases  it  is  himself — his 
wily  words,  and,  above  all,  his  own  implicit  faith  in  the  infallibility 
of  his  arguments — that  constitutes  the  most  dangerous  snare  • 


Anne.  What !  do  you  tremble  ?  are  you  all  afraid  ? 
Alas !  I  blame  you  not ;  for  you  are  mortal, 
And  mortal  eyes  cannot  endure  the  devil. — 
Avaunt,  thou  dreadful  minister  of  hell ! 
Thou  hadst  but  power  over  his  mortal  body — 
His  soul  thou  canst  not  have ;  therefore,  begone ! 

Glo.  Sweet  saint,  for  charity,  be  not  so  curst. 

Anne.  Foul  devil !  for  God's  sake,  hence;  and  trouble  us  not ; 
For  thou  hast  made  the  happy  earth  thy  hell, 
Fill'd  it  with  cursing  cries,  and  deep  exclaims. 
If  thou  delight  to  view  thy  heinous  deeds, 
Behold  this  pattern  of  thy  butcheries  : 
********  * 

Glo.  Lady,  you  know  no  rules  of  charity, 
Which  renders  good  for  bad,  blessings  for  curses. 

Anne.  Villain,  thou  know'st  no  law  of  God  nor  man  ; 
No  beast  so  fierce  but  knows  some  touch  of  pity. 

Glo.  But  I  know  none,  and  therefore  am  no  beast. 

Anne.  O  wonderful,  when  devils  tell  the  truth  ! 

Glo.  More  wonderful,  when  angels  are  so  angry. — 
Vouchsafe,  divine  perfection  of  a  woman, 
Of  these  supposed  evils  to  give  me  leave, 
By  circumstance,  but  to  acquit  myself. 
******** 
******** 

Tour  beauty  was  the  cause  of  that  effect ; 
Your  beauty,  which  did  haunt  me  in  my  sleep 


LADY    ANNE.  279 


To  undertake  the  death  of  all  the  world, 

So  I  might  live  one  hour  in  your  sweet  bosom. 


I  never  su'd  to  friend  nor  enemy : 

My  tongue  could  never  learn  sweet  soothing  word ; 

But  now  thy  beauty  is  propos'd  my  fee, 

My  proud  heart  sues,  and  prompts  my  tongue  to  speak. 

[She  looks  scornfully  on  him. 
Teach  not  thy  lip  such  scorn ;  for  it  was  made 
For  kissing,  lady,  not  for  such  contempt. 
If  thy  revengeful  heart  cannot  forgive, 
Lo  !  here  I  lend  thee  this  sharp-pointed  sword ! 
Which  if  thou  please  to  hide  in  this  true  breast, 
And  let  the  soul  forth  that  adoreth  thee, 
I  lay  it  naked  to  the  deadly  stroke, 
And  humbly  beg  the  death  upon  my  knee. 

\He  lays  his  breast  open  ;  she  offers  at  it  with 
his  sword. 
Nay,  do  not  pause  ;  for  I  did  kill  Bang  llenry  ; — 
But  'twas  thy  beauty  that  provoked  me. 
Nay,  now  despatch ;  'twas  I  that  stabb'd  young  Edward : — 

[She  again  offers  at  his  breast. 
But  'twas  thy  heavenly  face  that  set  me  on. 

[She  lets  fall  the  sword. 
Take  up  the  sword  again,  or  take  up  me. 

Anne.  Arise,  dissembler :  though  I  wish  thy  death, 
I  will  not  be  thy  executioner. 


I  would  I  knew  thy  heart. 

Glo.  'Tis  figur'd  in 

My  tongue. 

Anne.        I  fear  me  both  are  false. 

Glo.  Then  man 

Was  never  true. 

Anne.  Well,  well,  put  up  your  sword. 

Glo.  Say,  then,  my  peace  is  made. 

Anne.  That  shall  you  know 

Hereafter. 

Glo.        But  shall  I  live  in  hope  ? 


280  LADY    ANNE. 

Anne.  All  men, 

I  hope,  live  so. 

Glo.  Vouchsafe  to  wear  this  ring. 

Anne.  To  take  is  not  to  give.      [She  puts  on  the  ring. 

Glo.  Look,  how  this  ring  encompasseth  thy  finger, 
Even  so  thy  breast  encloseth  my  poor  heart ; 
Wear  both  of  them,  for  both  of  them  are  thine. 
And  if  thy  poor  devoted  servant  may 
But  beg  one  favor  at  thy  gracious  hand, 
Thou  dost  confirm  his  happiness  forever. 

Anne.  With  all  my  heart ;  and  much  it  joys  me,  too, 
To  see  you  are  become  so  penitent. — 
Tressel  and  Berkley,  go  along  with  me. 

With  all  our  appreciation  of  the  gentleness  of  this  "gentle 
Lady  Anne,"  "  ay,  too  gentle,"  we  cannot  forbear  ejaculating  with 
Richard,  himself: 

Was  ever  woman  in  this  humor  woo'd  ? 

Was  ever  woman  in  this  humor  won  ? 

I'll  have  her, — but  I  will  not  keep  her  long. 

What !  I,  that  kill'd  her  husband,  and  his  father, 

To  take  her  in  her  heart's  extremest  hate — 

With  curses  in  her  mouth,  tears  in  her  eyes, 

The  bleeding  witness  of  her  hatred  by — 

With  God,  her  conscience,  and  these  bars  against  me, 

And  I  no  friends  to  back  my  suit  withal, 

But  the  plain  devil,  and  dissembling  looks, 

And  yet  to  win  her  ? — all  the  world  to  nothing ! 

When  we  next  meet  her,  she  is  summoned  to  her  coronation ; 
and  it  is  a  touching  piciaire  that  she  gives  us  of  the  grievous  pen- 
ance she  has  undergone  for  that  blundering  hour  of  nattered 
vanity : 

Stan.        ******* 
Come,  madam,  you  must  straight  to  Westminster, 


v 


LADY    ANNE.  281 


There  to  be  crowned  Richard's  royal  queen. 


*        * 


Anne.  And  I  with  all  unwillingness  will  go. — 
O,  would  to  God  that  the  inclusive  verge 
Of  golden  metal,  that  must  round  my  brow, 
Were  red-hot  steel,  to  sear  me  to  the  brain  ! 
Anointed  let  me  be  with  deadly  venom — 
And  die,  ere  men  can  say  God  Save  the  Queen  ! 


When  he,  that  is  my  husband  now, 
Came  to  me,  as  I  followed  Henry's  corse — 
When  scarce  the  blood  was  well  wash'd  from  his  hands, 
Which  issu'd  from  my  other  angel  husband, 
And  that  dead  saint  which  then  I  weeping  follow'd — 
O,  when,  I  say,  I  look'd  on  Richard's  face, 
This  was  my  wish, — Be  thou,  quoth  I,  accursed, 
For  making  me,  so  young,  so  old  a  widow  ! 
And,  when  thou  wecfist,  let  sorrow  haunt  thy  bed/ 
And  be  thy  wife  {if  any  be  so  mad) 
■*-  More  miserable  by  the  life  of  thee 

Than  thou  hast  made  me  by  my  dear  lord's  death  ! 

Lo,  ere  I  can  repeat  this  curse  again, 

Even  in  so  short  a  space,  my  woman's  heart 

Grossly  grew  captive  to  his  honey  words, 

And  prov'd  the  subject  of  mine  own  soul's  curse, 

Which  ever  since  hath  held  mine  eyes  from  rest ; 

For  never  yet  one  hour  in  his  bed 

Did  I  enjoy  the  golden  dew  of  sleep, 

But  Avith  his  timorous  dreams  was  still  awak'd. 

Besides,  he  hates  me  for  my  father  Warwick  ; 

And  will,  no  doubt,  shortly  be  rid  of  me. 

And  when,  at  last,  poor  Anne  "  has  bid  the  world  good-night/ 
and  Gloster  is  already  promised  another  bride,  her  ghost  appears 
to  her  guilty  husband — to  swell  the  horrors  of  his  sleep  before  the 
battle  in  which  he  is  doomed  to  fall,  and  like  the  rest  of  his  super- 

36 


282  LADY    ANNE. 

natural  visitants,   victims  of  his  cruelty,    to  pronounce   a  male- 
diction : 

The  Ghost  of  Queen  Anne  rises. 

Ghost.  Richard,  thy  wife,  that  wretched  Anne  thy  wife, 
That  never  slept  a  quiet  hour  with  thee, 
Now  fills  thy  sleep  with  perturbations ; 
To-morrow  in  the  battle  think  on  me, 
And  fall  thy  edgeless  sword.   Despair,  and  die ! 


U   (21 


sf 


LADY    PERCY. 

Lady  Katharine  Peecy,  wife  of  young  Harry  Percy — sur« 
named  Hotspur,  for  the  fiery  recklessness  of  his  character — can 
scarcely  be  denominated  the  heroine  of  King  Henry  IV.,  because, 
properly  speaking,  that  play  is  constructed  without  one ;  but  as 
she  is  the  only  female  character  in  the  serious  part  of  the  dramatic 
action,  she  may  claim  that  honor  without  challenging  invidious 
comparison. 

King  Henry  IV.,  in  its  two  parts,  treats,  on  the  one  hand,  of 
the  revolts  of  discontented  nobles  against  the  king — being,  so  far, 
of  the  "  drum  and  trumpet "  type ;  and  on  the  other,  gives  us  the 
adventures  of  the  mad-cap  heir  apparent,  Prince  Henry,  in  com- 
pany with  his  boon  companion,  Sir  John  Falstaff. 

The  part  of  Lady  Percy  is  a  mere  miniature  sketch,  noticeable 
only  for  its  fidelity  to  every-day  human  nature,  and  contained  in 
two  or  three  short  scenes  in  the  domestic  life  of  the  spoilt-child 
wife  of  a  hot-headed  young  warrior,  who,  his  soul  all  alive  with 
the  blaze  and  din  of  battle-fields,  is  accustomed  to  pet  her  with 
good-natured  contempt. 

She  is  young,  fond  and  proud  of  her  gallant  Hotspur,  innocent 
and  engaging ;  but  she  has  no  peculiar  traits,  mental  or  moral. 


284  LADY    PERCY. 

The  nature  of  the  conjugal  relation  between  a  pair  so  opposed, 
is  best  exemplified  by  the  scene  where  Percy  takes  leave  of  his 
wife,  before  going  to  the  wars  : 

jj~q(         ******        *        * 

How  now,  Kate  ?    I  must  leave  you  within  these  two  hours. 

Lady  P.  O,  my  good  lord,  why  are  you  thus  alone  ? 
For  what  offence  have  I,  this  fortnight,  been 
A  banish' d  woman  from  my  Harry's  bed  ? 
Tell  me,  sweet  lord,  what  is 't  that  takes  from  thee 
Thy  stomach,  pleasure,  and  thy  golden  sleep  ? 
Why  dost  thou  bend  thine  eyes  upon  the  earth, 
And  start  so  often  when  thou  sitt'st  alone  ? 
Why  hast  thou  lost  the  fresh  blood  in  thy  cheeks, 
And  given  my  treasures,  and  my  rights  of  thee, 
To  thick-ey'd  musing,  and  curs'd  melancholy  ? 
In  thy  faint  slumbers  I  by  thee  have  watch'd, 
And  heard  thee  murmur  tales  of  iron  wars, 
Speak  terms  of  manage  to  thy  bounding  steed, 
Cry,  Courage! — to  the  field!        *        *        *        * 
*****         O,  what  portents  are  these  ? 
Some  heavy  business  hath  my  lord  in  hand, 
And  I  must  know  it,  else  he  loves  me  not — 
*         *         *        *        *         *        *        * 

What  is  it  carries  you  away  ? 


Hot. 

My  horse, 

My  love,  my  horse.         * 

*        »        * 

Away,  away,  you  trifler ! 

Love  ?    I  love  thee  not- 

I  care  not  for  thee,  Kate. 

*         *         * 

♦ 

Gods  me,  my  horse  ! 

What  say'st  thou,  Kate  ?  what  would'st  thou  have  with  me  ? 

Lady  P.  Do  you  not  love  me  ?  do  you  not,  indeed  ? 
*        *        *        *        *        Do  you  not  love  me  ? 
Nay,  tell  me,  if  you  speak  in  jest  or  no. 

Hot.  Come,  wilt  thou  see  me  ride  ? 
And  when  I  am  o'  horseback  I  will  swear 
I  love  thee  infinitely.     But  hark  you,  Kate — 
I  must  not  have  you  henceforth  question  me 
Whither  I  go,  nor  reason  whereabout : 
Whither  I  must,  I  must ;  and,  to  conclude, 


LADY    PERCY.  285 

This  evening  must  I  leave  you,  gentle  Kate. 

I  know  you  wise — but  yet  no  further  wise 

Than  Harry  Percy's  wife ;  constant  you  are — 

But  yet  a  woman ;  and  for  secresy, 

No  lady  closer — for  I  well  believe 

Thou  wilt  not  utter'  what  thou  dost  not  know ; 

And  so  far  will  I  trust  thee,  gentle  Kate  ! 

At  the  "battle  of  Shrewsbury,  the  gallant  Hotspur  falls,  mortally 
wounded  by  Prince  Henry;  and  in  the  Second  Part  of  King 
Henry  IV.,  we  find,  in  dismal  contrast  to  the  playful,  pouting,  self- 
willed  young  wife,  the  subdued,  grief-stricken  widow.  In  her  ap- 
peal to  her  Harry's  father  to  "go  not  to  these  wars,"  she  pro- 
nounces a  beautiful  eulogium  on  her  dead  soldier,  replete  with  elo- 
quent pathos : 

O,  yet,  for  God's  sake,  go  not  to  these  wars  I 
The  time  was,  father,  that  you  broke  your  word 
When  you  were  more  endear'd  to  it  than  now — 
When  your  own  Percy,  when  my  heart's  dear  Harry, 
Threw  many  a  northward  look,  to  see  his  father 
Bring  up  his  powers  ;  but  he  did  long  in  vain. 
Who  then  persuaded  you  to  stay  at  home  ? 
There  were  two  honors  lost — yours  and  your  son's. 
For  yours — may  heavenly  glory  brighten  it ! 
For  his,  it  stuck  upon  him,  as  the  sun 
In  the  gray  vault  of  heaven ;  and  by  his  light 
Did  all  the  chivalry  of  England  move 
To  do  brave  acts ;       *        *        *        *        * 

*  *         *     So  that,  in  speech,  in  gait, 
In  diet,  in  affections  of  delight, 

In  military  rules,  humors  of  blood, 

He  was  the  mark  and  glass,  copy  and  book, 

That  fashion'd  others.        *         *         *        • 

*  *        *        *        — let  them  alone : 
The  marshal  and  the  archbishop  are  strong ; 
Had  my  sweet  Harry  had  but  half  their  numbers, 
To-day  might  I,  hanging  on  Hotspur's  neck, 
Have  talk'd  of  Monmouth's  grave. 


74^£/. 


THE  PRINCESS  KATHARINE. 

The  play  of  King  Henry  V.,  which  concludes  with  the  mar- 
riage of  the  daughter  of  Charles  VI.  to  the  English  monarch, 
Henry,  commemorates  the  latter's  extensive  conquests  in  France, 
and  though  chiefly  occupied  with  martial  exploits,  is  not  altogether 
devoid  of  the  comic  element.  This  is*  especially  noticeable  in 
Henry's  broken-French  wooing  of  the  Princess  Katharine,  who  is 
equally  ignorant  of  English. 

The  princess,  herself,  is  the  familiar  model  of  the  bleu  blevt 
French  demoiselle — shy,  excessively  circumspect,  and  very  chary 
of  words.  She  is  quite  overwhelmed  by  the  tempestuous  suit  of 
the  bluff  "  king  of  good  fellows ; "  but  is  plainly  flattered  by  the 
prospect  of  being  queen  of  England. 

Besides  this  scene  with  King  Henry,  she  appears  only  once;  and 
then,  with  admirable  prescience  of  her  coming  good  fortune,  she 
takes  a  lesson  in  English  from  her  lady-in-waiting.  As  for  character 
in  a  demoiselle  of  gentle  breeding,  to  be  even  suspected  of  having 
one  " devant  ses  noces"  that  " is  not  be,"  in  the  words  of  the  naive 
interpreter, "  de  fashion^Krar  les  ladies  of  France,"  any  more  than  the 
granting  of  a  kiss  to  a  lover — a  maxim  of  national  etiquette,  by  the 
by,  which  King  Hal  expounds  with  practical  cleverness : 


288  PRINCESS    KATHARINE. 

H.  Hen.  Fair  Katharine,  and  most  fair ! 
Will  you  vouchsafe  to  teach  a  soldier  terms, 
Such  as  will  enter  at  a  lady's  ear, 
And  plead  his  love-suit  to  her  gentle  heart  ? 

Hath.  Your  majesty  shall  mock  at  me  ;  I  cannot  speak 
your  England. 

H.  Hen.  O  fair  Katharine,  if  you  will  love  me  soundly 
with  your  French  heart,  I  will  be  glad  to  hear  you 
confess  it  brokenly  with  your  English  tongue.  Do  you 
like  me,  Kate  ? 

Hath.  Pardonnez  moy,  I  cannot  tell  vat  is — like  me. 

H.  Hen.  An  angel  is  like  you,  Kate ;  and  you  are  like 
an  angel. 

Hath.  Que  dit-ilf  quejesuis  semblable  A  les  anges  ? 

Alice.  Ouy,  vrayment,  {sauf  vostre  grace?)  ainsi  dit-il. 

H.  Hen.  I  said  so,  dear  Katharine ;  and  I  must  not 
blush  to  affirm  it. 

Hath.  0  ton  Dieu !  les  langues  des  hommes  sont 
pleines  des  tromperies. 

H.  Hen.  What  says  she,  fair  one  ?  that  the  tongues  of 
men  are  full  of  deceits  ? 

Alice.  Ouy  ;  dat  de  tongues  of  de  mans  is  be  full  of 
deceits :  dat  is  de  princess. 

H.  Hen.  Marry,  if  you  would  put  me  to  verses,  or  to 
dance  for  your  sake,  Kate,  why  you  undid  me ;  for  I 
speak  to  thee  plain  soldier :  If  thou  canst  love  me  for  this, 
take  me ;  if  not,  to  say  to  thee  that  I  shall  die,  is  true ; 
but,  for  thy  love — by  the  Lord,  no ;  yet  I  love  thee  too. 
And  while  thou  livest,  dear  Kate,  take  a  fellow  of  plain 
and  uncoined  constancy ;  for  he  perforce  must  do  thee 
right,  because  he  hath  not  the  gift  to  woo  in  other 
places ;  for  these  fellows  of  infinite  tongue,  that  can  rhyme 
themselves  into  ladies'  favors, — they  do  always  reason 
themselves  out  again.  If  thou  would  have  such-  a  one, 
take  me ;  and  take  me,  take  a  soldier ;  take  a  soldier, 
take  a  king :  And  what  sayest  thou  then  to  my  love  ? 
speak,  my  fair,  and  fairly,  I  pray  thee. 

Hath.  Is  it  possible  dat  I  should  love  de  enemy  of 
France  ? 

H.  Hen.  No ;  it  is  not  possible  you  should  love  the 


PRINCESS    KATHARINE.  289 

enemy  of  France,  Kate ;  but,  in  loving  mo,  you  should 
love  the  friend  of  France ;  for  I  love  France  so  well,  that 
I  -will  not  part  with  a  village  of  it ;  I  will  have  it  all 
mine ;  and,  Kate,  when  France  is  mine,  and  I  am  yours, 
then  yours  is  France,  and  you  are  mine. 

Kath.  I  cannot  tell  vat  is  dat. 

K.  Hen.  Now  fye  upon  my  false  French !  By  mine 
honor,  in  true  English,  I  love  thee,  Kate ;  by  which 
honor  I  dare  not  swear  thou  lovest  me ;  yet  my  blood 
begins  to  flatter  me  that  thou  dost,  notwithstanding  the 
poor  and  untempering  effect  of  my  visage.  And  there- 
fore tell  me,  most  fair  Katharine — will  you  have  me  ?  Put 
off  your  maiden  blushes ;  avouch  the  thoughts  of  your 
heart  with  the  looks  of  an  empress;  take  me  by  tho 
hand,  and  say — Harry  of  England,  I  am  thine :  which 
word  thou  shalt  no  sooner  bless  mine  ear  withal,  but  I 
will  tell  thee,  aloud,  England  is  thine,  Ireland  is  thine, 
France  is  thine,  and  Henry  Plantagenet  is  thine — who, 
though  I  speak  it  before  his  face,  if  he  be  not  fellow  with 
the  best  king,  thou  shalt  find  the  best  king  of  good  fel- 
lows. Come,  your  answer  in  broken  music — for  thy 
voice  is  music,  and  thy  English  broken ;  therefore  queen 
of  all,  Katharine,  break  thy  mind  to  me  in  broken  Eng- 
lish :  Wilt  thou  have  mo  ? 

Kath.  Dat  is  as  it  shall  please  de  roy  monpere. 

K.  Hen.  Nay,  it  will  please  him  well,  Kate ;  it  shall 
please  him,  Kate. 

Kath.  Den  it  shall  also  content  me. 

K.  Hen.  Upon  that  I  will  kiss  your  hand,  and  I  call 
you — my  queen. 

Kath.  Laissez,  mon  seigneur,  laissez,  laissezf  ma 
foy,  je  ne  veux  point  que  vous  abbaissez  vostre  grandeur, 
en  baisant  la  main  cfune  vostre  indigne  serviteure  1  ex- 
cusez  moy,  je  vous  supplie,  mon  ires  puissant  seigneur. 

K.  Hen.  Then  I  will  kiss  your  lips,  Kate. 

Kath.  Les  dames,  et  damoiselles,  pour  estre  baisies  de- 
vant  leur  nopces,  il  riest  pas  le  coutume  de  France. 

K.  Hen.  Madam  my  interpreter,  what  says  she  ? 

Alice.  Dat  it  is  not  be  de  fashion  pour  les  ladies  of 
France, — I  cannot  tell  what  is,  baiser,  en  English. 

K.  Hen.  To  kiss. 
37 


990  PRINCESS    KATHARINE. 

Alice.  Your  majesty  entendre  bettre  que  moy. 

K.  Hen.  It  is  not  the  fashion  for  the  maids  in  France 
to  kiss  before  they  are  married,  would  she  say  ? 

Alice.   Out/,  vrayment. 

IT.  Sen.  O  Kate,  nice  customs  curt'sy  to  great  kings. 
Dear  Kate,  you  and  I  cannot  be  confined  within  the 
weak  fist  of  a  country's  fashion :  we  are  the  makers  of 
manners,  Kate ;  and  the  liberty  that  follows  our  places, 
stops  the  mouths  of  all  find-faults — as  I  will  do  yours, 
for  upholding  the  nice  fashion  of  your  country,  in  deny- 
ing me  a  kiss ;  therefore,  patiently  and  yielding.  ^Kiss- 
ing her.]  You  have  witchcraft  in  your  lips,  Kate; 
there  is  more  eloquence  in  a  sugar  touch  of  them  than 
in  the  tongues  of  the  French  council ;  and  they  should 
sooner  persuade  Harry  of  England  than  a  general  peti- 
tion of  monarchs. 


a? 


(ZS^ia-O; 


' 


SC  .  A 


PORTIA. 

This  lady,  daughter  of  Cato,  and  wife  of  Marcus  Brutus,  ia 
introduced  with  grateful  effect  in  the  tragedy  of  Julius  Caesar, 
affording  relief,  by  her  truly  feminine  presence,  to  that  painful 
record  of  "  treason,  stratagems,"  and  foul  conspiracy. 

Portia  is  the  just  impersonation  of  a  matron  "  after  the  high  Ro- 
man fashion," — carefully  finished,  and  severely  classic  in  its  lightest 
touches.  Full  of  sensibility,  tenderness,  and  all  the  timid  flutter- 
ings  of  her  sex,  she  yet  entertains  lofty  ideas  of  the  heroic  forti- 
tude, severe  virtues,  and  unflinching  nerve  that  become  "Cato's 
daughter,"  and  "  the  woman  that  Lord  Brutus  took  to  wife ; "  and 
in  her  unavailing  self-discipline  to  attain  those  stoical  perfections, 
she  presents  one  more  example  of  the  ineffectuality  of  the  "  schools" 
to  divert  the  natural  bent  of  the  female  character. 

"  For  the  picture  of  this  wedded  couple,  at  once  august  and 
tender,"  says  Campbell,  "  human  nature,  and  the  dignity  of  conju- 
gal faith,  are  indebted ;"  it  is  almost  the  only  instance,  among  all  of 
Shakspeare's  married  people,  in  which,  long  after  the  honeymoon 
has  departed,  the  wife  is  neither  the  master,  slave,  nor  pretty  toy 
of  her  husband : 


292  PORTIA. 

Bru.  Portia,  what  mean  you  ?  Wherefore  rise  you  now  ? 
It  is  not  for  your  health,  thus  to  commit 
Your  weak  condition  to  the  raw-cold  morning. 

For.  Nor  for  yours  neither.    You  have  ungently,  Brutus, 
Stole  from  my  bed.    And  yesternight,  at  supper, 
You  suddenly  arose,  and  walked  about, 
Musing,  and  sighing,  with  your  arms  across ; 
And  when  I  ask'd  you  what  the  matter  was, 
You  star'd  upon  me  with  ungentle  looks. 
I  urged  you  further ;  then  you  scratch'd  your  head, 
And  too  impatiently  stamp'd  with  your  foot ; 
Yet  I  insisted,  yet  you  answer'd  not — 
But,  with  an  angry  wafture  of  your  hand, 
Gave  sign  for  me  to  leave  you :  So  I  did. 
******        Dear  my  lord, 
Make  me  acquainted  with  your  cause  of  grief. 

Bru.  I  am  not  well  in  health,  and  that  is  all. 

Por.  Brutus  is  wise;  and,  were  he  not  in  health, 
He  would  embrace  the  means  to  come  by  it. 

Bru.  Why,  so  I  do. — Good  Portia,  go  to  bed. 

pQJ.  *  *  *  *  .  *  *  * 

*****  No,  my  Brutus  ; 

You  have  some  sick  offence  within  your  mind, 
Which,  by  the  right  and  virtue  of  my  place, 
I  ought  to  know  of:  And,  upon  my  knees, 
I  charm  you,  by  my  once  commended  beauty, 
By  all  your  vows  of  love,  and  that  great  vow 
Which  did  incorporate  and  make  us  one, 
That  you  unfold  to  me,  yourself,  your  half, 
Why  you  are  heavy.    *        *        *        * 

Bru.  Kneel  not,  gentle  Portia. 

Por.  I  should  not  need,  if  you  were  gentle  Brutus. 
Within  the  bond  of  marriage,  tell  me,  Brutus, 
Is  it  excepted  I  should  know  no  secrets 
That  appertain  to  you  ?    Am  I  yourself 
But,  as  it  were,  in  sort,  or  limitation — 
To  keep  with  you  at  meals,  comfort  your  bed, 
And  talk  to  you  sometimes  ?    Dwell  I  but  in  the  suburbs 
Of  your  good  pleasure  ?     If  it  be  no  more, 


TORT  I  A.  293 

Portia  is  Brutus'  harlot,  not  his  wife. 

Bru.  You  are  my  true  and  honorable  wife, 
As  dear  to  me  as  are  the  ruddy  drops 
That  visit  my  sad  heart. 

Por.  If  this  were  true,  then  should  I  know  this  secret. 
I  grant  I  am  a  woman — but,  withal, 
A  woman  that  Lord  Brutus  took  to  wife  ; 
I  grant  I  am  a  woman — but,  withal, 
A  woman  well  reputed — Cato's  daughter. 
Think  you  I  am  no  stronger  than  my  sex, 
Being  so  father'd,  and  so  husbanded  ? 
Tell  me  your  counsels — I  will  not  disclose  them : 
I  have  made  strong  proof  of  my  constancy, 
Giving  myself  a  voluntary  wound, 
Here,  in  the  thigh.    Can  I  bear  that  with  patience, 
And  not  my  husband's  secrets  ? 

Bru.  O  ye  gods, 

Render  me  worthy  of  this  noble  wife ! — 
Hark !  hark !  one  knocks :  Portia,  go  in  awhile  ; 
And  by  and  by  thy  bosom  shall  partake 
The  secrets  of  my  heart. 
All  my  engagements  I  will  construe  to  thee. 

The  scene  where  Portia,  aware  of  the  plot  to  kill  Caesar  in  the 
capitol,  sends  her  page  thither  to  gather  tidings  for  her  agonized 
suspense,  is  full  of  spirit ;  the  natural  excitability  and  weak  tre* 
mors  of  the  woman  are  portrayed  to  the  life,  and  prove  the  worth- 
lessness  of  her  boasted  philosophy  to  keep  her  heart  down,  when 
it  starts  up  alarmed  for  her  husband's  safety : 

Por.  I  pr'ythee,  boy,  run  to  the  senate-house  ; 
Stay  not  to  answer  me,  but  get  thee  gone — 
Why  dost  thou  stay  ?     . 

Luc.  To  know  my  errand,  madam. 

Por.  I  would  have  had  thee  there,  and  here  again, 
Ere  I  can  tell  thee  what  thou  should'st  do  there. — 

0  constancy,  be  strong  upon  my  side ! 

Set  a  huge  mountain  'tween  my  heart  and  tongue  ! 

1  have  a  man's  mind,  but  a  woman's  might. 


294  PORTIA. 

How  hard  it  is  for  women  to  keep  counsel ! — 
********* 
Bring  we  word,  boy,  if  thy  lord  look  well, 
For  he  went  sickly  forth.   And  take  good  note 
What  Caesar  doth,  what  suitors  press  to  him. 
Hark,  boy !  what  noise  is  that  ? 

*        *        *        Ah  me  J  j10W  weak  a  thing 

The  heart  of  woman  is !     O  Brutus ! 

The  heavens  speed  thee  in  thine  enterprise ! 

Sure,  the  boy  heard  me : — Brutus  hath  a  suit 

That  Caesar  will  not  grant. — O,  I  grow  faint : — 

Run,  Lucius,  and  commend  me  to  my  lord ; 

Say  I  am  merry.    Come  to  me  again, 

And  bring  me  word  what  he  doth  say  to  thee. 

But  alas  for  this  gentle  lady  of  "  a  man's  mind,  bnt  a  woman's 
might ! "  these  alternations  of  hope,  fear,  suspense,  and  heroic  efforts 
at  self-command,  are  too  much  for  her  delicate  organization ;  in  a 
fit  of  wild  distraction  she  puts  an  end  to  her  life.  Her  husband 
thus  communicates  the  grievous  tidings  to  his  friend  Cassius : 

JBru.  O  Cassius,  I  am  sick  of  many  griefs. 

Cas.  Of  your  philosophy  you  make  no  use, 
If  you  give  place  to  accidental  evils. 

Bru.  No  man  bears  sorrow  better : — Portia  is  dead. 

Cas.  Ha!  Portia? 

Bru.  She  is  dead. 

Cas.  How  scap'd  I  killing,  when  I  cross'd  you  so  ? 
O  insupportable  and  touching  loss  ! — 
Upon  what  sickness  ? 

Bru.  Impatient  of  my  absence, 

And  grief  that  young  Octavius  with  Mark  Antony 
Have  made  themselves  so  strong ; — for  with  her  death 
That  tidings  came.     With  this  she  fell  distract ; 
And,  her  attendants  absent,  swallow' d  fire. 

Cas.  And  died  so  ? 

Bru.  Even  so. 

Cas.  0  ye  immortal  gods  ! 


nOKLOLANUG     ACT    2,  SCI. 


V I  Ft  G I L I A . 

The  Virgilia  of  Coriolanus,  wife  of  the  Roman  hero,  is  a  pleas- 
ing outline  study  of  the  patrician  lady  of  that  classic  period.  In 
her  conjugal  devotion,  her  "gracious  silence,"  and  her  shrinking 
modesty — befitting  a  virgin,  rather  than  the  wife  of  the  renowned 
Marcius,  and  the  mother  of  his  boy — she  is  strongly  contrasted 
with  her  mother-in-law,  Voluninia,  whose  grand  patriotism,  stately 
pride  of  intellect  and  blood,  and  lofty  spirit,  constitute  her  a  rep- 
resentative matron  of  old  Rome. 

In  the  dramatic  action,  as  well  as  in  her  domestic  relations, 
Virgilia  is  entirely  subordinate  to  Volumnia ;  Marcius  is  a  tender 
husband,  but  his  mother  is  the  inspiration  of  his  most  famous 
achievements,  and  hers  the  only  influence  he  acknowledges — Vir- 
gilia has  neither  the  intellect,  nor  the  desire,  to  control  his  haughty 
spirit. 

After  the  departure  of  Marcius  for  the  wars  against  the  Vol-* 
cians,  whence  he  returns  distinguished  with  the  name  of  Coriola- 
nus,  these  two  ladies  are  discovered  in  a  home  scene,  full  of  the 
charm  of  privacy  and  feminine  ways,  sitting  on  "  low  stools "  at 
their  "  stitchery ; "  they  are  interrupted  in  their  conversation  by 


296  VIRGILIA. 

a  call  from  the  Lady  Valeria,  "  the  noble  sister  of  Publicola,  the 
moon  of  Rome." 

The  talk  between  the  mother  and  her  son's  wife  concerning 
their  mutual  idol,  Marcius — the  heroic  love  of  glory  in  the  one, 
opposed  to  the  timid  tenderness  of  the  other — discriminates  with 
much  nicety  their  widely  contrasted  characters  : 

Vol.  I  pray  you,  daughter,  sing;  or  express  yourself 
m  a  more  comfortable  sort.  If  my  son  were  my  husband, 
I  should  freelier  rejoice  in  that  absence  wherein  he  won 
honor. 

yet  he  was  but  tender-bodied,  and  the  only  son  of  my 
womb ;  when  youth  with  comeliness  plucked  all  gaze  his 
way;  when,  for  a  day  of  king's  entreaties,  a  mother 
should  not  sell  him  an  hour  from  her  beholding — I,  con- 
sidering how  honor  would  become  such  a  person — that 
it  was  no  better  than  picture-like,  to  hang  by  the  wall,  if 
renown  made  it  not  stir — was  pleased  to  let  him  seek 
danger  where  he  was  like  to  find  fame.  To  a  cruel  war  I 
sent  him ;  from  whence  he  returned,  his  brows  bound 
with  oak.  I  tell  thee,  daughter,  I  sprang  not  more  in 
joy  at  first  hearing  he  was  a  man-child,  than  now  in  first 
seeing  he  had  proved  himself  a  man. 

Vir.  But  had  he  died  in  the  business,  madam  ?  how 
then? 

Vol.  Then  his  good  report  should  have  been  my  son  ; 
I  therein  would  have  found  issue  ; 

Methinks  I  hear  hither  your  husband's  drum — 
See  him  pluck  Aufidius  down  by  the  hair — 
As  children  from  a  bear,  the  Voices  shunning  him  ; 
Methinks  I  see  him  stamp  thus,  and  call  thus, — 
Come  on,  you  cowards  !  you  were  got  in  fear, 
Though  you  were  born  in  Home.   His  bloody  brow 
With  his  mail'd  hand  then  wiping,  forth  he  goes — 
Like  to  a  harvest-man,  that's  task'd  to  mow 
Or  all,  or  lose  his  hire. 

Vir.  His  bloody  brow !  O,  Jupiter,  no  blood ! 


VIRGIL  I  A.  1)(J7 

Vol.  Away,  you  fool !  it  more  becomes  a  man 
Than  gilt  his  trophy :  The  breasts  of  Hecuba, 
When  she  did  suckle  Hector,  look'd  not  lovelier 
Than  Hector's  forehead  when  it  spit  forth  blood 
At  Grecian  swords'  contending. — Tell  Valeria 
"We  are  fit  to  bid  her  welcome. 

Vir.  Heavens  bless  my  lord  from  fell  Aufidius. 

Vol.  He'll  beat  Aufidius'  head  below  his  knee, 
And  tread  upon  his  neck. 

And  yet,  to  a  woman,  who  alone  can  appreciate  the  temptation. 
Virgilia's  persistent  resistance  of  her  friend's  and  her  mother's  en- 
treaties to  "  go  forth  with  them,"  bespeaks  a  quiet  firmness  of  pur- 
pose, for  which,  with  her  usual  soft  yielding,  one  would  scarce 
give  her  credit : 

Val.  How  do  you  both  ?  you  are  manifest  house-keep- 
ers. What !  are  you  sewing  here  ?  A  fine  spot  in  good 
faith. 

********* 

Come  lay  aside  your  stitchery ;  I  must  have  you  play 
the  idle  huswife  with  me  this  afternoon. 

Vir.  No,  good  madam ;  I  will  not  out  of  doors. 

Val.  Not  out  of  doors ! 

Vol.  She  shall,  she  shall. 

Vir.  Indeed,  no,  by  your  patience :  I  will  not  over  the 
threshold,  till  my  lord  returns  from  the  wars. 

Val.  Fye  !  you  confine  yourself  most  unreasonably. 

:p******* 

Vol.  Why,  I  pray  you? 

Vir.  'Tis  not  to  save  labor,  nor  that  I  want  love. 

Val.  You  would  be  another  Penelope ;  yet,  they  say, 
all  the  yarn  she  spun,  in  Ulysses'  absence,  did  but  fill 
Ithaca  full  of  moths.  Come;  I  would  your  cambric 
were  as  sensible  as  your  finger,  that  you  might  leave 
pricking  it  for  pity.     Come,  you  shall  go  with  us. 

Vir.  No,  good  madam — pardon  me ;  indeed,  I  will  not 
orth. 


38 


298  VIRGILIA. 

Vol.  Let  her  alone,  lady ;  as  she  is  now,  she  will  but 
disease  our  better  mirth. 

Val.  In  troth,  I  think  she  would: — Fare  you  well 
then. — Come,  good  sweet  lady. — Pry'thee,  Virgilia,  turn 
thy  solemness  out  o'door,  and  go  along  with  us. 

Vir.  No — at  a  word,  madam ;  indeed,  I  must  not.  I 
wish  you  much  mirth. 

Val.  Well  then,  farewell. 

The  separate  individualities  of  the  two  ladies  are  also  clearly 
shown  in  their  manner  of  receiving  the  tidings  of  their  absent 
warrior ;  Volumnia  proudly  rejoices  in  that  which  fills  the  gentle 
soul  of  Virgilia  with  unqualified  horror : 

Vol.  Honorable  Menenius,  my  boy  Marcius  ap- 
proaches ;  for  the  love  of  Juno,  let's  go. 

Men.  ***** 

*****  Is  he  not  wounded  ?  he  was 

wont  to  come  home  wounded. 

~Vir.  O,  no,  no,  no  ! 

Vol.  O,  he  is  wounded — I  thank  the  gods  for't ! 

Lo,  on's  brows,  Menenius!  he  comes  the  third  time 
home  with  the  oaken  garland. 

So  too,  their  several  receptions  of  him  on  his  return  from  victory : 

Cor.  O ! 

You  have,  I  know,  petition'd  all  the  gods 
For  my  prosperity.  [Kneels. 

Vol.  Nay,  my  good  soldier,  up ! 

My  gentle  Marcius,  worthy  Caius,  and 
By  deed-achieving  honor  newly  nam'd — 
What  is  it  ?  Coriolanus,  must  I  call  thee  ? 
But  O,  thy  wife 

Cor.  My  gracious  silence,  hail ! 

Would'st  thou  have  laugh'd  had  I  come  coffin'd  home, 
That  weep'st  to  see  me  triumph  ?  Ah,  my  dear, 
Such  eyes  the  widows  in  Corioli  Avear, 
And  mothers  that  lack  sons. 


VIRGILIA.  299 

When  Coriolanus  is  banished,  Virgilia  is  overwhelmed  with 
grief;  it  leaves  her  no  words — only  pitiful  ejaculations;  but  Vo- 
lumnia  stuns  the  ears  of  her  ungrateful  countrymen  with  her 
curses,  her  accusations,  her  withering  sarcasm. 

And  again,  on  the  occasion  of  Volumnia's  grand  triumph  over 
her  son's  headlong  determination  of  revenge,  this  "most  noble 
mother  in  the  world"  appeals  to  him  in  a  torrent  of  immortal 
eloquence ;  Virgilia,  with  no  other  arguments  than  the  tears  in 
"those  doves1  eyes,  which  can  make  gods  forsworn" — her  hands 
raised  to  heaven,  she  kneeling,  with  her  boy,  in  the  dust. 


VfbttfJ? 


. 


4*6   Broa&wsw 


LAVINIA. 

Lavenia,  daughter  of  Titus  Audrouicus,  a  Roman  general,  and 
wife  of  Bassianus,  brother  to  the  emperor,  is  the  heroine  of  that 
revolting  tragedy  which  bears  her  father's  name. 

"  Gracious  Lavinia,  Rome's  rich  ornament,"  is  described  as  the 
most  dutiful  of  daughters,  chastest  of  virgins,  noblest  of  wives ; 
and  for  the  very  reason,  it  would  seem,  that  she  is  so  spotless,  is 
she,  like  Lucrece,  doomed  to  be  the  victim  of  one  of  those  crimes 
of  tragic  horror  which  foully  blot  the  pages  of  classic  story. 

For  Lavinia's  history  we  beg  leave  to  refer  to  the  text ;  from 
the  task  of  describing  its  terrible  details,  a  woman's  pen,  however 
innocently  bold,  naturally  revolts. 

The  lament  of  her  uncle,  Marcus  Andronicus,  over  the  fatal 
catastrophe  of  her  wrongs  and  mutilation,  affords  us  a  few  personal 
touches,  suggestive  of  the  accomplishments  of  this  "martyr'd  lady:" 

O,  that  delightful  engine  of  her  thoughts, 

That  blabb'd  them  with  such  pleasing  eloquence, 

Is  torn  from  forth  that  pretty  hollow  cage  ; 

Where,  like  a  sweet  melodious  bird,  it  sung 

Sweet  varied  notes,  enchanting  every  ear ! 

♦        ***♦**** 

********* 


302  LAVINIA. 

Fair  Philomela,  she  but  lost  her  tongue, 
And  in  a  tedious  sampler  sew'd  her  mind ; 
But,  lovely  niece,  that  mean  is  cut  from  thee  ; 
A  craftier  Tereus  hast  thou  met  withal, 
And  he  hath  cut  those  pretty  fingers  off, 
That  could  have  better  sew'd  than  Philomel. 
O,  had  the  monster  seen  those  lily  hands 
Tremble,  like  aspen  leaves,  upon  a  lute, 
And  make  the  silken  strings  delight  to  kiss  them, 
He  would  not  then  have  touch'd  them  for  his  life ; 
Or  had  he  heard  the  heavenly  harmony 
Which  that  sweet  tongue  hath  made, 
He  would  have  dropp'd  his  knife,  and  fell  asleep, 
As  Cerberus  at  the  Thracian  poet's  feet. 
Come,  let  us  go,  and  make  thy  father  blind  ; 
For  such  a  sight  will  blind  a  father's  eye. 


Mar.  What  means  my  niece  Lavinia  by  these  signs  ? 

Tit.  Fear  her  not,  Lucius  : — Somewhat  doth  she  mean. 
See,  Lucius,  see,  how  much  she  makes  of  thee ! 
Somewhither  would  she  have  thee  go  with  her. 
Ah,  boy,  Cornelia  never  with  more  care 
Read  to  her  sons,  than  she  hath  read  to  thee, 
Sweet  poetry,  and  Tully's  Orator. 

Tit.  Lucius,  what  book  is  that  she  tosseth  so  ? 

Boy.  Grandsire,  'tis  Ovid's  Metamorphoses ; 
My  mother  gave't  me. 

Mar.  For  love  of  her  that's  gone, 

Perhaps  she  cull'd  it  from  among  the  rest. 

Tit.  Soft !  see,  how  busily  she  turns  the  leaves ! 
Help  her : — 

What  would  she  find  ? — Lavinia,  shall  I  read  ? 
This  is  the  tragic  tale  of  Philomel, 
And  treats  of  Tereus's  treason. 


THE   END. 


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